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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/poemsofhenryvand01vand 



THE POEMS 

OF 

HENRY VAN DYKE 



BOOKS 


BY HENRY VAN 


DYKE 


Published 


by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 


The Ruling Passion. Illustrated in color . SI. 50 


The Blue Flower. Illustrated in color 


. . S1.50 




** 




Out-of-Doo 

in color 

Days Off. 


rs in the Holy Land. Illustr 


ated 
net SI. 50 

. . SI. 50 


Illustrated in color . . . 


Little Rivers. Illustrated in color . . 


. . S1.50 


Fisherman'. 


» Luck. Illustrated in color 


. . S1.50 


Poems . . 
The White 


{Postage extra, 


net S2.00 
net SI. 25 


Bees, and Other Poems . 


The Builders, and Other Poems . . 


net SI. 00 


Music, and 


Other Poems 


net SI. 00 


The Toiling 


of Felix, and Other Poems 


net SI. 00 


The House 


of Rimmon 


net SI. 00 



THE POEMS 

OF 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

tt 

NOW FIRST COLLECTED AND REVISED 
WITH MANY HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 



NEW YORK 
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

MCMXI 



Copyright, 1911, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
Published September, 1911 






^ 




©CI.A297336 



A WORD IN PROSE 
TO MY GENTLE READER 

This book is intended only for you, because you alone will 
keep it with you long enough to feel its meaning. 

Here is gathered and set in order all that I have been per- 
mitted to write, as yet, of the poetry that has come to me. I 
hoped once that it would be more, and feared often that it might 
be less. The long silent interval between the earlier and the 
later poems was filled with hard work at the call of duty. I 
have laboured in the vineyard and fought in the ranks. The 
youthful plan of a whole life devoted to the art of poetry has not 
been fulfilled. Instead has come an experience of the power of 
poetry to cheer and illumine the whole of life. 

Metre and rhyme have a deep relation to the rhythm of human 
emotion, of which I grow more sure the less I can explain it. 
Some call them a bondage, but the natural harmony of such laws 
makes for true freedom. Therefore, while using the older metri- 
cal forms with love and care, I have also adventured new ones, 
believing that English poesy has to win a larger liberty in those 
happy regions which lie between the formal and the formless. 

What I have seen and felt and dreamed beyond the horizon of 
prose, yet ever in the most real world, is here interpreted in 
verse. And if it speaks to you, gentle reader, it is yours as much 
as mine. 

Henry van Dyke. 



CONTENTS 



SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

PAGE 

WHEN TULIPS BLOOM 3 

THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 6 

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL IO 

THE SONG-SPARROW 1 3 

THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 1 5 

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT 1 9 

THE HERMIT-THRUSH 21 

THE VEERY 22 

DULCIORA 23 

MATINS 24 

A NOON SONG 25 

THE AFTER-ECHO 27 

WINGS OF A DOVE 29 

IF ALL THE SKIES 30 

SCHOOL 31 

THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST 32 

SPRING IN THE NORTH 34 

SPRING IN THE SOUTH 38 

THE FALL OF THE LEAVES 40 

INDIAN SUMMER 42 

A NOVEMBER DAISY . 43 

A SNOW-SONG 45 

ALPINE SONNETS „. 46 

ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN 49 

vli 



viii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES 50 

THE LILY OF YORROW 53 

ODE — GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 55 

STORIES IN VERSE 

THE TOILING OF FELIX 67 

VERA 82 

ANOTHER CHANCE 102 

A LEGEND OF SERVICE 106 

THE WHITE BEES Ill 

NEW YEAR'S EVE Iig 

THE VAIN KING '. 125 

THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE 131 

PRO PATRIA 

PATRIA I39 

AMERICA 140 

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS 141 

HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE I44 

SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN 152 

A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL 154 

URBS CORONATA 157 

MERCY FOR ARMENIA 159 

SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908 -. l6l 

JEANNE D'ARC 162 

NATIONAL MONUMENTS 1 64 

THE MONUMENT OF FRANCIS MAKEMIE 1 65 

THE STATUE OF SHERMAN BY ST. GAUDENS 1 66 

"AMERICA FOR ME" 167 

THE BUILDERS 169 

SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 183 

WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 191 



CONTENTS ix 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 

PAGE 

MOTHER EARTH 205 

MILTON 207 

WORDSWORTH 2IO 

KEATS 211 

SHELLEY 212 

ROBERT BROWNING 213 

TENNYSON 214 

"in memoriam" 215 

VICTOR HUGO 2l6 

LONGFELLOW 219 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 223 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 225 

TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 227 

RICHARD WATSON GILDER • . . 228 

MUSIC 

MUSIC 231 

MASTER OF MUSIC 246 

TO A YOUNG GIRL SINGING 248 

THE PIPES O' PAN . . 249 

THE OLD FLUTE 250 

LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

A MILE WITH ME 255 

THE THREE BEST THINGS 256 

RELIANCE 259 

DOORS OF DARING 260 

A HOME SONG 261 

THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 202 



x CONTENTS 

PAGE 

love's reason 263 

portrait and reality . . 264 

the echo in the heart . . 265 

"undine" 266 

"rencontre" 267 

love in a look 268 

my april lady 269 

A lover's envy 271 

EIRE -FLY CITY 272 

THE GENTLE TRAVELLER 273 

NEPENTHE . 274 

DAY AND NIGHT 276 

HESPER ........ 277 

ARRIVAL 278 

DEPARTURE 279 

THE BLACK BIRDS 280 

WITHOUT DISGUISE 284 

AN HOUR 285 

"RAPPELLE-TOl" 286 

EIGHT ECHOES FROM THE POEMS OF AUGUSTE ANGELLIER . . 288 

LOVE'S NEARNESS • . 298 

TWO SONGS OF HEINE 299 

THE RIVER OF DREAMS 3OO 

SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

"little boatie" 307 

a mother's birthday 309 

santa christina 31i 

rendezvous , 314 

gratitude 315 

transformation 316 

the wind of sorrow 317 



CONTENTS xi 

PAGE 

HIDE AND SEEK 318 

AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN ... 320 

THE MESSAGE 322 

DULCIS MEMORIA 323 

THE WINDOW 325 

PEACE 327 

THE BARGAIN 328 

BITTER-SWEET 329 

TO THE CHILD JESUS 330 

SONG OF A PILGRIM SOUL 331 

HYMN OF JOY 332 

ODE TO PEACE 334 

INSCRIPTIONS, GREETINGS, AND EPIGRAMS 

FOR KATRINA'S SUN-DIAL 34I 

FOR KATRINA'S WINDOW 342 

FOR THE FRIENDS AT HURSTMONT 343 

THE SUN-DIAL AT MORVEN 344 

THE SUN-DIAL AT WELLS COLLEGE 345 

TO MARK TWAIN 346 

STARS AND THE SOUL 348 

TO JULIA MARLOWE 349 

TO JOSEPH JEFFERSON 350 

THE MOCKING-BIRD 351 

THE EMPTY QUATRAIN 351 

PAN LEARNS MUSIC 351 

THE VALLEY OF VAIN VERSES • . . 352 

THE SHEPHERD OF NYMPHS 353 

ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 354 

ONE WORLD , 357 

JOY AND DUTY 357 

THE PRISON AND THE ANGEL 358 



xii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE WAY 358 

LOVE AND LIGHT 359 

THE ARROW 359 

FOUR THINGS 360 

THE GREAT RIVER 360 



WAYFARING PSALMS 

the distant road 363 

the welcome tent 365 

the great cities 367 

the friendly trees 369 

the broken sword 371 

the unseen altar 372 

the pathway of rivers 374 

the glory of ruins . '. 376 

the tribe of the helpers . 377 

the good teacher 378 

the camp-fires of my friend 379 

The House of Rimmon 381 

Index of First Lines . ... 461 



SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



WHEN TULIPS BLOOM 



When tulips bloom in Union Square, 
And timid breaths of vernal air 

Go wandering down the dusty town, 
Like children lost in Vanity Fair; 

When every long, unlovely row 
Of westward houses stands aglow, 

And leads the eyes to sunset skies 
Beyond the hills where green trees grow: 

Then weary seems the street parade, 
And weary books, and weary trade: 
I 'm only wishing to go a-fishing; 
For this the month of May was made. 

II 

I guess the pussy-willows now 
Are creeping out on every bough 

Along the brook; and robins look 
For early worms behind the plough. 
3 



SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

The thistle-birds have changed their dun 5 
For yellow coats, to match the sun; 

And in the same array of flame 
The Dandelion Show 's begun. 

The flocks of young anemones 

Are dancing round the budding trees: 

Who can help wishing to go a-fishing 
In days as full of joy as these? 



Ill 

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound 
Leaks upward slowly from the ground, 
While on the wing the bluebirds ring 
Their wedding-bells to woods around. 

The flirting chewink calls his dear 
Behind the bush; and very near, 

Where water flows, where green grass grows. 
Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer." 

And, best of all, through twilight's calm 
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm. 

How much I 'm wishing to go a-fishing 
In days so sweet with music's balm! 



WHEN TULIPS BLOOM 



IV 

'Tis not a proud desire of mine; 
I ask for nothing superfine; 

No heavy weight, no salmon great, 
To break the record, or my line. 

Only an idle little stream, 
Whose amber waters softly gleam, 

Where I may wade, through woodland shade, 
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream: 

Only a trout or two, to dart 

From foaming pools, and try my art: 

'Tis all I'm wishing — old-fashioned fishing, 
And just a day on Nature's heart. 
1894. 



SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, 
And all the little watchman-stars have fallen asleep in light, 
Tis then a merry wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, 
And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. 

This is the carol the Robin throws 

Over the edge of the valley; 
Listen how boldly it flows, 
Sally on sally: 

Tirra-Urra, 

Early morn, 

New born! 

Day is near, 

Clear, clear. 

Down the river 

All a-quiver, 

Fish are breaking; 

Time for waking. 

Tup, tup, tup! 

Do you hear? 

All clear — 

Wake up! 



THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 7 

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with 

the dark, 
And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; 
Now forth she fares thro' friendly woods and diamond-fields 

of dew, 
While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were 



new. 



This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, 

Unto his mate replying, 
Shaking the tune from his wings 
While he is flying: 

Surely, surely, surely, 
Life is dear 
Even here. 
Blue above, 
You to love, 
Purely, purely, purely. 

There 's wild azalea on the hill, and iris down the dell, 
And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; 
The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, 
Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink. 

This is the song of the Yellowthroat, 
Fluttering gaily beside you; 



8 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

Hear how each voluble note 
Offers to guide you: 
Which way, sir? 
I say, sir, 
Let me teach you, 
I beseech you! 
Are you wishing 
Jolly fishing ? 
This way, sir! 
Fit teach you. 

Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your fears 

behind, 
And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; 
For be your fortune great or small, you take what God will 

give, 
And all the day your heart will say, " 'Tis luck enough to 

live." 

This is the song the Brown Thrush flings 

Out of his thicket of roses; 
Hark how it bubbles and rings, 
Mark how it closes: 

Luck, luck, 
What luck? • 
Good enough for me, 
Fm alive, you see! 



i8 9 a 



THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 

Sun shining, 
No repining; 
Never borrow 
Idle sorrow; 
Drop it! 
Cover it up! 
Hold your cup! 
Joy will fill it, 
Don't spill it. 
Steady, be ready, 
Good luck! 



io SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 

Do you remember, father, — 
It seems so long ago, — 

The day we fished together 
Along the Pocono? 

At dusk I waited for you, 
Beside the lumber-mill, 

And there I heard a hidden bird 
That chanted, "whip-poor- will,' ■ 
' ' Whippoorwill ! whippoorwill ! ' ' 
Sad and shrill, — "whippoorwill I" 

The place was all deserted; 
The mill-wheel hung at rest; 

The lonely star of evening 
Was throbbing in the west; 

The veil of night was falling; 
The winds were folded still; 

And everywhere the trembling air 
Re-echoed " whip-poor- will !" 
' ' Whippoorwill I whippoorwill ! ' ' 
Sad and shrill, — "whippoorwill!" 



THE WHIP-POOR-WILL n 

You seemed so long in coming, 

I felt so much alone; 
The wide, dark world was round me, 

And life was all unknown; 
The hand of sorrow touched me, 

And made my senses thrill 
With all the pain that haunts the strain 

Of mournful whip-poor-will. 

' ' Whippoorwill ! whippoorwill ! ' ' 

Sad and shrill, — "whippoorwill!" 

What knew I then of trouble? 

An idle little lad, 
I had not learned the lessons 

That make men wise and sad. 
I dreamed of grief and parting, 

And something seemed to fill 
My heart with tears, while in my ears 

Resounded ' ' whip-poor-will . ' ' 

1 ' Whippoorwill I whippoorwill I ' ' 

Sad and shrill, — "whippoorwill I" 

'Twas but a cloud of sadness, 

That lightly passed away; 
But I have learned the meaning 

Of sorrow, since that day. 



12 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

For nevermore at twilight, 

Beside the silent mill, 
I'll wait for you, in the falling dew, 

And hear the whip-poor-will. 

" Whippoorwill ! whippoorwill ! " 

Sad and shrill, — "whippoorwill!" 

But if you still remember, 

In that fair land of light, 
The pains and fears that touch us 

Along this edge of night, 
I think all earthly grieving, 

And all our mortal ill, 
To you must seem like a sad boy's dream, 

Who hears the whip-poor-will. 

' ' Whippoorwill ! whippoorwill ! ' ' 

A passing thrill, — "whippoorwill I" 
1894. 



THE SONG-SPARROW 13 



THE SONG-SPARROW 

There is a bird I know so well, 

It seems as if he must have sung 

Beside my crib when I was young; 
Before I knew the way to spell 

The name of even the smallest bird, 

His gentle-joyful song I heard. 
Now see if you can tell, my dear, 
What bird it is that, every year, 
Sings "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer." 

He comes in March, when winds are strong, 

And snow returns to hide the earth; 

But still he warms his heart with mirth, 
And waits for May. He lingers long 

While flowers fade; and every day 

Repeats his small, contented lay; 
As if to say, we need not fear 
The season's change, if love is here 
With "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer" 

He does not wear a Joseph's-coat 

Of many colours, smart and gay; 

His suit is Quaker brown and gray, 
With darker patches at his throat. 



i 4 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

And yet of all the well-dressed throng 
Not one can sing so brave a song. 
It makes the pride of looks appear 
A vain and foolish thing, to hear 
His "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer. , J 

A lofty place he does not love, 

But sits by choice, and well at ease, 
In hedges, and in little trees 
That stretch their slender arms above 
The meadow-brook; and there he sings 
Till all the field with pleasure rings; 
And so he tells in every ear, 
That lowly homes to heaven are near 
In Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer" 

I like the tune, I like the words; 

They seem so true, so free from art, 

So friendly, and so full of heart, 
That if but one of all the birds 

Could be my comrade everywhere, 

My little brother of the air, 
I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear, 
Because he 'd bless me, every year, 
With "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer. 1 
1895. 



THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 15 



THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 

I 
Where 's your kingdom, little king? 
Where the land you call your own, 
Where your palace and your throne ? 
Fluttering lightly on the wing 
Through the blossom-world of May, 
Whither lies your royal way, 
Little king? 

Far to northward lies a land 
Where the trees together stand 
Closely as the blades of wheat 
When the summer is complete. 
Rolling like an ocean wide 
Over vale and mountain side, 
Balsam, hemlock, spruce and pine, — 
All those mighty trees are mine. 
There '$ a river flowing free, — 
All its waves belong to me. 
There 's a lake so clear and bright 
Stars shine out of it all night; 
Rowan-berries round it spread 
Like a belt of coral red. 



16 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

Never royal garden planned 
Fair as my Canadian land! 
There I build my summer nest, 
There I reign and there I rest. 
While from dawn to dark I sing, 
Happy kingdom! Lucky king! 

II 

Back again, my little king! 
Is your happy kingdom lost 
To the rebel knave, Jack Frost? 

Have you felt the snow-flakes sting? 
Houseless, homeless in October, 
Whither now? Your plight is sober 
Exiled king! 

Far to southward lie the regions 
Where my loyal flower-legions 
Hold possession of the year, 
Filling every month with cheer. 
Christmas wakes the winter rose ; 
New Year daffodils unclose; 
Yellow jasmine through the wood 
Flows in February flood, 
Dropping from the tallest trees 
Golden streams that never freeze. 



THE RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET 17 

Thither now I take my flight 
Down the pathway of the night, 
Till I see the southern moon 
Glisten on the broad lagoon. 
Where the cypress' dusky green, 
And the dark magnolia's sheen, 
Weave a shelter round my home. 
There the snow-storms never come; 
There the bannered mosses gray 
Like a curtain gently sway, 
Hanging low on every side 
Round the covert where I bide. 
Till the March azalea glows, 
Royal red and heavenly rose, 
Through the Carolina glade 
Where my winter home is made. 
There I hold my southern court, 
Full of merriment and sport: 
There I take my ease and sing, 
Happy kingdom! Lucky king! 

Ill 

Little boaster, vagrant king, 

Neither north nor south is yours, 

You 've no kingdom that endures! 
Wandering every fall and spring, 



18 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

With your ruby crown so slender, 
Are you only a Pretender, 
Landless king? 

Never king by right divine 
Ruled a richer realm than mine! 
What are lands and golden crowns, 
Armies, fortresses and towns, 
Jewels, sceptres, robes and rings, — 
What are these to song and wings? 
Everywhere that I can fly, 
There I own the earth and sky; 
Everywhere that I can sing. 
There I 'm happy as a king. 
1900. 



THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT 19 



THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT 

When May bedecks the naked trees 
With tassels and embroideries, 
And many blue-eyed violets beam 
Along the edges of the stream, 
I hear a voice that seems to say, 
Now near at hand, now far away, 
' ' Witchery — witchery — witchery. ' ' 

An incantation so serene, 
So innocent, befits the scene: 
There 's magic in that small bird's note — 
See, there he flits — the Yellow- throat; 
A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, 
A spark of light that shines and sings 
" Witchery — witchery — witchery" 

You prophet with a pleasant name, 
If out of Mary-land you came, 
You know the way that thither goes 
Where Mary's lovely garden grows: 
Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, 
And try to call her down this way, 
" Witchery — witchery — witchery ! " 



20 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, 
And all her little silver bells 
That blossom into melody, 
And all her maids less fair than she. 
She does not need these pretty things, 
For everywhere she comes, she brings 
" Witchery — witchery — witchery /" 

The woods are greening overhead, 
And flowers adorn each mossy bed; 
The waters babble as they run — 
One thing is lacking, only one: 
If Mary were but here to-day, 
I would believe your charming lay, 
" Witchery — witchery — witchery /" 

Along the shady road I look — 
Who 's coming now across the brook ? 
A woodland maid, all robed in white — 
The leaves dance round her with delight, 
The stream laughs out beneath her feet- 
Sing, merry bird, the charm 's complete, 

" Witchery — witchery — witchery!" 
1895. 



THE HERMIT THRUSH 



THE HERMIT THRUSH 

O wonderful! How liquid clear 
The molten gold of that ethereal tone, 
Floating and falling through the wood alone, 
A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear! 

O holy, holy, holy/ Hyaline, 

Long light, low light, glory of eventide 1 

Love far away, far up,— up, —love divine 1 

Little love, too, for ever, ever near, 

Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine, 

In the leafy dark where you hide, 

You are mine, — mine, — mine I 

Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me 
The hidden virtue of that melody, 
The rapture and the purity of love, 
The heavenly joy that can not find the word? 
Then, while we wait again to hear the bird, 
Come very near to me, and do not move,— 
Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew 
The cool, green cup of air with harmony, 
And we will drink the wine of love with you. ' 
May, 1908. 



21 



22 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



THE VEERY 

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, 
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring. 
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie; 
I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the wood notes of the veery. 

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; 
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together; 
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie; 
I only know one song more sweet, — the vespers of the veery. 

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, 
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: 
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, 
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery. 

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing; 
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are 

ringing: 
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, 
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery. 
1895. 



DULCIORA 23 



DULCIORA 

A tear that trembles for a little while 
Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world 
Wavers within its circle like a dream, 
Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb 
Than all the distant landscape that it blurs. 

A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved, 
Like the faint pulsing of the Northern Light, 
And grows in silence to an amber dawn, 
Born in the sweetest depths of trustful eyes, 
Is dearer to the soul than sun or star. 

A joy that falls into the hollow heart 
From some far-lifted height of love unseen, 
Unknown, makes a more perfect melody 
Than hidden brooks that murmur in the dusk, 
Or fall athwart the cliff with wavering gleam. 

Ah, not for their own sake are earth and sky 
And the fair ministries of Nature dear, 
But as they set themselves unto the tune 
That fills our life; as light mysterious 
Flows from within and glorifies the world. 



24 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

For so a common wayside blossom, touched 
With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet 
Than crowns the royal lily of the South; 
And so a well-remembered perfume seems 
The breath of one who breathes in Paradise. 
1872. 



MATINS 

Flowers rejoice when night is done, 
Lift their heads to greet the sun; 
Sweetest looks and odours raise, 
In a silent hymn of praise. 

So my heart would turn away 
From the darkness to the day; 
Lying open in God's sight 
As a flower adores the light. 



A NOON SONG 25 



A NOON SONG 

There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, 

For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon; 
But who will give praise to the fulness of light, 
And sing us a song of the glory of noon? 
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon, 

The noon with golden crest; 
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns 
With his face to the way of the west! 

How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength; 
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by; 
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length 
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky. 
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil, 

The toil that may not rest, 
Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown, 
To the wonderful way of the west! 

Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill, 
The wings of the wind in the forest are furled, 

The river runs softly, the birds are all still, 
The workers are resting all over the world. 



26 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

Oh, the good hour, the kind hour, 

The hour that calms the breast! 
Little inn half-way on the road of the day, 

Where it follows the turn to the west! 

There 's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade, 

The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune, 
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid, 
To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon. 
Oh, the deep noon, the full noon, 

Of all the day the best! 
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns 
To his home by the way of the west 
1906. 



THE AFTER-ECHO 27 



THE AFTER-ECHO 

How long the echoes love to play 
Around the shore of silence, as a wave 
Retreating circles down the sand! 
One after one, with sweet delay, 
The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave, 
Have lingered in the crescent bay, 
Until, by lightest breezes fanned, 
They float far off beyond the dying day 
And leave it still as death. 

But hark, — 
Another singing breath 
Comes from the edge of dark; 

A note as clear and slow 
As falls from some enchanted bell, 
Or spirit, passing from the world below, 
That whispers back, Farewell. 

So in the heart, 
When, fading slowly down the past, 

Fond memories depart, 
And each that leaves it seems the last; 



28 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

Long after all the rest are flown, 
Returns a solitary tone, — 
The after-echo of departed years, — 
And touches all the soul to tears. 
1871. 



WINGS OF A DOVE £9 



WINGS OF A DOVE 

I 

At sunset, when the rosy light was dying 

Far down the pathway of the west, 
I saw a lonely dove in silence flying, 
To be at rest. 

Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow 
Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest, 
I'd fly away from every careful sorrow, 
And find my rest. 

II 

But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling, 

Home flew the dove to seek his nest, 
Deep in the forest where his mate was calling 
To love and rest. 

Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander; 

Lose not thy life in barren quest. 

There are no happy islands over yonder; 

Come home and rest. 
1874. 



3 o SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



IF ALL THE SKIES 

If all the skies were sunshine, 
Our faces would be fain 

To feel once more upon them 
The cooling plash of rain. 

If all the world were music, 
Our hearts would often long 

For one sweet strain of silence, 
To break the endless song. 

If life were always merry, 
Our souls would seek relief, 

And rest from weary laughter 
In the quiet arms of grief. 



SCHOOL 31 



SCHOOL 

I put my heart to school 
In the world where men grow wise: 
"Go out," I said, "and learn the rule; 
"Come back when you win a prize." 

My heart came back again: 
"Now where is the prize?" I cried. — 
"The rule was false, and the prize was pain, 
"And the teacher's name was Pride." 

I put my heart to school 

In the woods where veeries sing 

And brooks run clear and cool, 

In the fields where wild flowers spring. 

"And why do you stay so long, 

"My heart, and where do you roam?" 

The answer came with a laugh and a song, — 

"I find this school is home." 

April, 1901. 



32 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST 

Who watched the worn-out Winter die? 

Who, peering through the window-pane 

At nightfall, under sleet and rain 
Saw the old graybeard totter by? 
Who listened to his parting sigh, 

The sobbing of his feeble breath, 

His whispered colloquy with Death, 

And when his all of life was done 
Stood near to bid a last good-bye? 

Of all his former friends not one 
Saw the forsaken Winter die. 

Who welcomed in the maiden Spring? 

Who heard her footfall, swift and light 

As fairy-dancing in the night? 
Who guessed what happy dawn would bring 
The flutter of her blue-bird's wing, 
The blossom of her mayflower-face 

To brighten every shady place? 

One morning, down the village street, 
"Oh, here am I," we heard her sing, — 

And none had been awake to greet 
The coming of the maiden Spring. 



THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST 33 

But look, her violet eyes are wet 

With bright, unfallen, dewy tears; 

And in her song my fancy hears 
A note of sorrow trembling yet. 
Perhaps, beyond the town, she met 

Old Winter as he limped away 

To die forlorn, and let him lay 

His weary head upon her knee, 

And kissed his forehead with regret 

For one so gray and lonely, — see, 
Her eyes with tender tears are wet. 

And so, by night, while we were all at rest, 
I think the coming sped the parting guest. 

1873. 



34 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



SPRING IN THE NORTH 

I 

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, 

Why the sweet Spring delays, 

And where she hides, — the dear desire 

Of every heart that longs 
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire 
Of maple-buds along the misty hills, 
And that immortal call which fills 

The waiting wood with songs? 
The snow-drops came so long ago, 

It seemed that Spring was near! 

But then returned the snow 
With biting winds, and earth grew sere, 

And sullen clouds drooped low 
To veil the sadness of a hope deferred: 
Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain 

Beat on the window-pane, 
Through which I watched the solitary bird 
That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed 
With rumpled feathers down the wind again. 

Oh, were the seeds all lost 
When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb ? 



SPRING IN THE NORTH 35 

I searched the woods in vain 
For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white, 
And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight, 
Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom. 

But every night the frost 
To all my longing spoke a silent nay, 
And told me Spring was far away. 
Even the robins were too cold to sing, 
Except a broken and discouraged note, — 
Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat 
Music has put her triple finger-print, 
Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint, — 
"Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!" 

II 

But now, Carina, what divine amends 

For all delay! What sweetness treasured up, 

What wine of joy that blends 
A hundred flavours in a single cup, 
Is poured into this perfect day! 
For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers 

That lingered on their way, 
Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, 
Entangled with the bloom of later hours, — 
Anemones and cinque-foils, violets blue 
And white, and iris richly gleaming through 



36 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze 
Of butter-cups and daisies in the field, 

Filling the air with praise, 
As if a chime of golden bells had pealed! 

The frozen songs within the breast 
Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods, 

Melt into rippling floods 

Of gladness unrepressed. 
Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark, 
Warbler and wren and vireo, 
Mingle their melody; the living spark 
Of Love has touched the fuel of desire, 
And every heart leaps up in singing fire. 

It seems as if the land 
Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress. 

Trembling with tenderness, 

While all the woods expand, 
In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green. 
To veil a joy too sacred to be seen. 



Ill 

Come, put your hand in mine, 
True love, long sought and found at last, 
And lead me deep into the Spring divine 

That makes amends for all the wintry past. 



SPRING IN THE NORTH 37 

For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss 

Arrive with you; 
And in the lingering pressure of your kiss 

My dreams come true; 
And in the promise of your generous eyes 

I read the mystic sign 

Of joy more perfect made 

Because so long delayed, 
And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise. 
Ah, think not early love alone is strong; 
He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait: 
Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long, 
You 're doubly dear because you come so late. 



38 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



SPRING IN THE SOUTH 

Now in the oak the sap of life is welling, 

The-' to the bough the rusty leafage clings; 
Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling; 

Every little pine- wood grows alive with wings; 
Blue-jays are fluttering, yodeling and crying, 

Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass, 
Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying, — 

Who has waked the birds up ? What has come to pass ? 

Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing, 

Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn; 
Red are the hillsides of the early ploughing, 

Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn. 
Earth seems asleep, but she is only feigning; 

Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest; 
Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining 

Jove's golden shower into Danae's breast! 

Now on the plum-tree a snowy bloom is sifted, 
Now on the peach-tree, the glory of the rose, 

Far o'er the hills a tender haze is drifted, 
Full to the brim the yellow river flows. 



SPRING IN THE SOUTH 39 

Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten, 
Greener than emeralds shining in the sun. 

Whence comes the magic? Listen, sweetheart, listen! 
The mocking-bird is singing: Spring is begun. 

Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving! 

All of his heart he pours into his lay, — 
"Love, love, love, and pure delight of living: 

Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!" 
Fair in your face I read the flowery presage, 

Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth: 
Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message, — 

Love, love, love, and Spring in the South! 
1904. 



4 o SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



THE FALL OF THE LEAVES 

I 
In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, 

The regiments of autumn stood: 
I saw their gold and scarlet glowing 

From every hillside, every wood. 

Above the sea the clouds were keeping 
Their secret leaguer, gray and still; 

They sent their misty vanguard creeping 
With muffled step from hill to hill. 

All day the sullen armies drifted 
Athwart the sky with slanting rain; 

At sunset for a space they lifted, 
With dusk they settled down again 

II 

At dark the winds began to blow 

With mutterings distant, low; 
From sea and sky they called their strength, 
Till with an angry, broken roar, 
Like billows on an unseen shore, 

Their fury burst at length. 



THE FALL OF THE LEAVES 41 

I heard through the night 

The rush and the clamour; 
The pulse of the fight 

Like blows of Thor's hammer; 
The pattering flight 
Of the leaves, and the anguished 
Moan of the forest vanquished. 

At daybreak came a gusty song: 
"Shout! the winds are strong. 
The little people of the leaves are fled. 
Shout! The Autumn is dead!" 

Ill 

The storm is ended! The impartial sun 
Laughs down upon the battle lost and won, 
And crowns the triumph of the cloudy host 
In rolling lines retreating to the coast. 

But we, fond lovers of the woodland shade, 
And grateful friends of every fallen leaf, 
Forget the glories of the cloud-parade, 
And walk the ruined woods in quiet grief. 

For ever so our thoughtful hearts repeat 
On fields of triumph dirges of defeat; 
And still we turn on gala-days to tread 
Among the rustling memories of the dead. 
1874. 



42 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



INDIAN SUMMER 

A silken curtain veils the skies, 
And half conceals from pensive eyes 

The bronzing tokens of the fall; 
A calmness broods upon the hills, 
And summer's parting dream distils 

A charm of silence over all. 

The stacks of com, in brown array, 
Stand waiting through the tranquil day, 

Like tattered wigwams on the plain; 
The tribes that find a shelter there 
Are phantom peoples, forms of air, 

And ghosts of vanished joy and pain. 

At evening when the crimson crest 
Of sunset passes down the West, 

I hear the whispering host returning; 
On far-off fields, by elm and oak, 
I see the lights, I smell the smoke, — 

The Camp-fires of the Past are burning. 

Tertius and Henry van Dyke. 
November, 1903. 



A NOVEMBER DAISY 43 



A NOVEMBER DAISY 

Afterthought of summer's bloom! 
Late arrival at the feast, 
Coming when the songs have ceased 
And the merry guests departed, 
Leaving but an empty room, 
Silence, solitude, and gloom! 
Are you lonely, heavy-hearted; 
You, the last of all your kind, 
Nodding in the autumn wind; 
Now that all your friends are flown, 
Blooming late and all alone? 

Nay, I wrong you, little flower, 
Reading mournful mood of mine 
In your looks, that give no sign 
Of a spirit dark and cheerless! 
You possess the heavenly power 
That rejoices in the hour. 
Glad, contented, free, and fearless. 
Lift a sunny face to heaven 
When a sunny day is given! 
Make a summer of your own, 
Blooming late and all alone! 



44 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

Once the daisies gold and white 
Sea-like through the meadow rolled: 
Once my heart could hardly hold 
All its pleasures. I remember, 
In the flood of youth's delight 
Separate joys were lost to sight. 
That was summer! Now November 
Sets the perfect flower apart; 
Gives each blossom of the heart 
Meaning, beauty, grace unknown, — 
Blooming late and all alone. 
November, 1899 



A SNOW SONG 45 



A SNOW-SONG 

Does the snow fall at sea ? 
Yes, when the north winds blow, 
When the wild clouds fly low, 
Out of each gloomy wing, 
Silently glimmering, 
Over the stormy sea 
Falleth the snow. 

Does the snow hide the sea? 
Nay, on the tossing plains 
Never a flake remains; 
Drift never resteth there; 
Vanishing everywhere, 
Into the hungry sea 
Falleth the snow. 

What means the snow at sea? 
Whirled in the veering blast, 
Thickly the flakes drive past; 
Each like a childish ghost 
Wavers, and then is lost; 
In the forgetful sea 
Fadeth the snow. 

1875. 



46 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



ALPINE SONNETS 
I 

THE GLACIER 

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, 
The silver-crested waves no murmur make; 
But far away the avalanches wake 

The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; 

Their momentary thunders, dying, seem 
To fall into the stillness, flake by flake, 
And leave the hollow air with naught to break 

The frozen spell of solitude supreme. 

At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring 
Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls 

Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring 
With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; 

As if a poet's heart had felt the glow 

Of sovereign love, and song began to flow. 

Zermatt 1872. 



THE SNOW-FIELD 47 

II 
THE SNOW-FIELD 

White Death had laid his pall upon the plain, 

And crowned the mountain-peaks like monarchs dead; 

The vault of heaven was glaring overhead 
With pitiless light that filled my eyes with pain; 
And while I vainly longed, and looked in vain 

For sign or trace of life, my spirit said, 

" Shall any living thing that dares to tread 
This royal lair of Death escape again?" 

But even then I saw before my feet 

A line of pointed footprints in the snow: 

Some roving chamois, but an hour ago, 

Had passed this way along his journey fleet, 

And left a message from a friend unknown 

To cheer my pilgrim-heart no more alone. 

Zermatt, 1872. 



48 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

III 
MOVING BELLS 

t love the hour that comes, with dusky hair 
And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells 
To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells 

Go chiming after her across the fair 

And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare 
Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, 
And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells 

Of peace are woven through the purple air. 

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems 
To walk before the dark by falling rills, 

And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; 
She opens all the doors of night, and fills 

With moving bells the music of my dreams, 
That wander far among the sleeping hills. 
Gstaad, August, 1909. 



ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN 49 



ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN 

Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine 
The art that reared thy costly shrine! 
Thy carven columns must have grown 
By magic, like a dream in stone. 

Yet not within thy storied wall 
Would I in adoration fall, 
So gladly as within the glen 
That leads to lovely Hawthornden. 

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green 
And vine-clad pillars, while between, 
The Esk runs murmuring on its way, 
In living music night and day. 

Within the temple of this wood 

The martyrs of the covenant stood, 

And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer, 

From Nature's solemn altar-stair. 

Edinburgh, 1877. 



5o SONGS OUT OF DOORS 



LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES 

Long, long, long the trail 

Through the brooding forest-gloom, 
Down the shadowy, lonely vale 
Into silence, like a room 

Where the light of life has fled, 
And the jealous curtains close 
Round the passionless repose 
Of the silent dead. 

Plod, plod, plod away, 

Step by step in mouldering moss; 
Thick branches bar the day 
Over languid streams that cross 

Softly, slowly, with a sound 
Like a smothered weeping, 
In their aimless creeping 
Through enchanted ground. 

"Yield, yield, yield thy quest," 
Whispers through the woodland deep; 

"Come to me and be at rest; 
I am slumber, I am sleep." 



LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES 51 

Then the weary feet would fail, 
But the never-daunted will 
Urges "Forward, forward still! 

Press along the trail !" 

Breast, breast, breast the slope! 

See, the path is growing steep. 
Hark! a little song of hope 
Where the stream begins to leap. 

Though the forest, far and wide, 
Still shuts out the bending blue, 
We shall finally win through, 
Cross the long divide. 

On, on, on we tramp! 

Will the journey never end? 
Over yonder lies the camp; . 
Welcome waits us there, my friend. 

Can we reach it ere the night ? 
Upward, upward, never fear! 
Look, the summit must be near; 
See the line of light! 

Red, red, red the shine 

Of the splendour in the west, 
Glowing through the ranks of pine, 

Clear along the mountain-crest! 



5 2 SONGS OF OUT DOORS 

Long, long, long the trail 
Out of sorrow's lonely vale; 
But at last the traveller sees 
Light between the trees! 
March, 1904. 



THE LILY OF YORROW 53 



THE LILY OF YORROW 

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; 
Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing; 
Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south 
wind is blowing. 

Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower; 
Sweet are the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on 

the bower; 
Sweeter by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower. 

Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume 

enchanted 
Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are haunted, 
Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted. 

Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli 

leaning 
Over a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are 

greening ? 
Who can imagine its beau.y, or utter the depth of its meaning? 






S4 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains 

olden, 
Joy of the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden, 
Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden. 

Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a life-long endeavour; 
Surely to pluck it is gladness -but they who have found it 

can never 
Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision 

for ever. 

'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was wandering near 

me: 
Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to 

cheer me, — 
Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not 

hear me. 

Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with passion- 
ate sorrow? 
Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow: 
He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow. 

1894. 



GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 55 



ODE 

GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 
I 

Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair 

With flowers below, above with starry lights, 
And set thine altars everywhere, — 

On mountain heights, 
In woodlands dim with many a dream, 
In valleys bright with springs, 
And on the curving capes of every stream: 
Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings 

Of morning, to abide 
Upon the secret places of the sea, 

And on far islands, where the tide 
Visits the beauty of untrodden shores, 
Waiting for worshippers to come to thee 

In thy great out-of-doors! 
To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, 
God of the open air. 

II 
Seeking for thee, the heart of man 

Lonely and longing ran, 
In that first, solitary hour, 

When the mysterious power 



56 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

To know and love the wonder of the morn 
Was breathed within him, and his soul was born; 
And thou didst meet thy child, 
Not in some hidden shrine, 
But in the freedom of the garden wild, 

And take his hand in thine, — 
There all day long in Paradise he walked, 
And in the cool of evening with thee talked. 



Ill 



Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure, 
Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure, 
And lost the child-like love that worshipped and was 
sure! 
For men have dulled their eyes with sin, 
And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt, 
And built their temple walls to shut thee in, 
And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out. 
But not for thee the closing of the door, 
O Spirit unconfined! 
Thy ways are free 
As is the wandering wind, 
And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore 

Their fellowship with thee, 
In peace of soul and simpleness of mind. 



GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 57 

IV 

Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by, 
Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky; 
And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night, 
For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier, 
Built up a secret stairway to the height 
Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear. 
From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age, 

Disciples of the Persian seer 
Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee; 
And wayworn followers of the Indian sage 
Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree. 



But One, but One, — ah, Son most dear, 
And perfect image of the Love Unseen, — 

Walked every day in pastures green, 
And all his life the quiet waters by, 
Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye. 
To him the desert was a place prepared 
For weary hearts to rest; 

The hillside was a temple blest; 

The grassy vale a banquet-room 
Where he could feed and comfort many a guest. 



58 SONGS OUT OF DOORS 

With him the lily shared 
The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom; 
And every bird that sang beside the nest 
Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing. 

He watched the shepherd bring 
His flock at sundown to the welcome fold, 

The fisherman at daybreak fling 
His net across the waters gray and cold, 
And all day long the patient reaper swing 
His curving sickle through the harvest-gold. 
So through the world the foot-path way he trod, 
Breathing the air of heaven in every breath; 
And in the evening sacrifice of death 
Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God. 
Him will I trust, and for my Master take; 
Him will I follow; and for his dear sake, 
God of the open air, 

To thee I make my prayer. 

VI 

From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded, 
From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded, 
From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion, 
From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion, 
(Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!) 
I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air. 



GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 59 

By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me, 
By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me, 
By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion, 
Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean, 
(Oh, how the sight of the greater things enlarges the eyes!) 
Draw me away from myself to the peace of the hills and skies. 

While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading, 
And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been 

treading; 
While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flow- 
ing under, 
Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder, 
(Lo, in the magic of Springtime, dreams are changed into 

truth!) 
Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth. 

By the faith that the wild-flowers show when they bloom 

unbidden, 
By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden, 
By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep foundation, 
By the courage of birds' light wings on the long migration, 
(Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's breast!) 
Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest. 

For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces, 
For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places, 



60 SONGS OF OUT DOORS 

For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their 

fingers, 
For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twlight lingers, 
For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath of a heart 

without care, — 
I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air! 

VII 

These are the gifts I ask 

Of thee, Spirit serene: 

Strength for the daily task, 

Courage to face the road, 
Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load, 
And, for the hours of rest that come between, 
An inward joy in all things heard and seen. 

These are the sins I fain 

Would have thee take away: 

Malice, and cold disdain, 

Hot anger, sullen hate, 
Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great, 
And discontent that casts a shadow gray 
On all the brightness of the common day. 

These are the things I prize 

And hold of dearest worth: 

Light of the sapphire skies, 

Peace of the silent hills, 



GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 61 

Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass, 
Music of birds, murmur of little rills, 
Shadows of cloud that swiftly pass, 
And, after showers, 
The smell of flowers 
And of the good brown earth, — 
And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth. 
So let me keep 
These treasures of the humble heart 
In true possession, owning them by love; 
And when at last I can no longer move 

Among them freely, but must part 
From the green fields and from the waters clear, 
Let me not creep 
Into some darkened room and hide 
From all that makes the world so bright and dear; 
But throw the windows wide 
To welcome in the light; 
And while I clasp a well-beloved hand, 

Let me once more have sight 
Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land, — 
Then gently fall on sleep, 
And breathe my body back to Nature's care, 
My spirit out to thee, God of the open air. 
1904. 



STORIES IN VERSE 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 

A LEGEND ON A NEW SAYING OF JESUS 



In the rubbish heaps of the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus, near the 
River Nile, a party of English explorers, in the winter of 1897, discovered 
a fragment of a papyrus book, written in the second or third century, 
and hitherto unknown. This single leaf contained parts of seven short 
sentences of Christ, each introduced by the words, "Jesus says." It 
is to the fifth of these Sayings of Jesus that the following poem refers. 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 

I 

PRELUDE 

Hear a word that Jesus spake 
Eighteen hundred years ago, 
Where the crimson lilies blow 
Round the blue Tiberian lake: 
There the bread of life He brake, 
Through the fields of harvest walking 
With His lowly comrades, talking 
Of the secret thoughts that feed 
Weary souls in time of need. 
Art thou hungry? Come and take; 
Hear the word that Jesus spake! 
'Tis the sacrament of labour, bread and wine divinely blest; 
Friendship's food and sweet refreshment, strength and courage, 
joy and rest. 

But this word the Master said 

Long ago and far away, 

Silent and forgotten lay 
Buried with the silent dead, 
Where the sands of Egypt spread 

Sea-like, tawny billows heaping 

Over ancient cities sleeping, 

67 



68 STORIES IN VERSE 

While the River Nile between 

Rolled its summer flood of green 

Rolled its autumn flood of red: 

There the word the Master said, 

Written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by fire, and torn, 

Hidden in God's hand was waiting for its resurrection morn. 

Now at last the buried word 
By the delving spade is found, 
Sleeping in the quiet ground. 
Now the call of life is heard: 
Rise again, and like a bird, 
Fly abroad on wings of gladness 
Through the darkness and the sadness, 
Of the toiling age, and sing 
Sweeter than the voice of Spring, 
Till the hearts of men are stirred 
By the music of the word, — 
Gospel for the heavy-laden, answer to the labourer's cry: 
"Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood and 
there am I" 

II 

LEGEND 

Brother-men who look for Jesus, long to see Him close and 

clear, 
Hearken to the tale of Felix, how he found the Master near. 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 69 

Born in Egypt, 'neath the shadow of the crumbling gods of 

night, 
He forsook the ancient darkness, turned his young heart 

toward the Light. 

Seeking Christ, in vain he waited for the vision of the Lord; 
Vainly pondered many volumes where the creeds of men were 
stored; 

Vainly shut himself in silence, keeping vigil night and day; 
Vainly haunted shrines and churches where the Christians 
came to pray. 

One by one he dropped the duties of the common life of care, 
Broke the human ties that bound him, laid his spirit waste 
and bare, 

Hoping that the Lord would enter that deserted dwelling- 
place, 
And reward the loss of all things with the vision of His face. 

Still the blessed vision tarried; still the light was unrevealed; 
Still the Master, dim and distant, kept His countenance con- 
cealed. 

Fainter grew the hope of finding, wearier grew the fruitless 

quest; 
Prayer and penitence and fasting gave no comfort, brought 

no rest. 



70 STORIES IN VERSE 

Lingering in the darkened temple, ere the lamp of faith went 

out, 
Felix knelt before the altar, lonely, sad, and full of doubt. 

"Hear me, O thou mighty Master," from the altar-step he 

cried, 
"Let my one desire be granted, let my hope be satisfied! 

"Only once I long to see Thee, in the fulness of Thy grace: 
Break the clouds that now enfold Thee with the sunrise of 
Thy face! 

"All that men desire and treasure have I counted loss for 

Thee; 
Every hope have I forsaken, save this one, my Lord to see. 

"Loosed the sacred bands of friendship, solitary stands my 

heart; 
Thou shalt be my sole companion when I see Thee as Thou 

art. 

"From Thy distant throne in glory, flash upon my inward 

sight, 
Fill the midnight of my spirit with the splendour of Thy light. 

"All Thine other gifts and blessings, common mercies, I 

disown; 
Separated from my brothers, I would see Thy face alone. 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 71 

"I have watched and I have waited as one watcheth for the 

morn: 
Still the veil is never lifted, still Thou leavest me forlorn. 

"Now I seek Thee in the desert, where the holy hermits dwell; 
There, beside the saint Serapion, I will find a lonely cell. 

"There at last Thou wilt be gracious; there Thy presence, 

long-concealed, 
In the solitude and silence to my heart shall stand revealed. 

"Thou wilt come, at dawn or twilight, o'er the rolling waves 

of sand; 
I shall see Thee close beside me, I shall touch Thy pierced 

hand. 

"Lo, Thy pilgrim kneels before Thee; bless my journey 

with a word; 
Tell me now that if I follow I shall find Thee, O my Lord!" 

Felix listened: through the darkness, like a murmur of the wind, 
Came a gentle sound of stillness: "Never faint, and thou shalt 
find." 

Long and toilsome was his journey through the heavy land 

of heat, 
Egypt's blazing sun above him, blistering sand beneath his 

feet. 



72 STORIES IN VERSE 

Patiently he plodded onward, from the pathway never erred, 
Till he reached the river-fastness called the Mountain of the 
Bird. 

There the tribes of air assemble, once a year, their noisy flock, 
Then, departing, leave their sentinel perched upon the highest 
rock. 

Far away, on joyful pinions, over land and sea they fly; 
But the watcher on the summit lonely stands against the sky. 

There the eremite Serapion in a cave had made his bed; 
There the faithful bands of pilgrims sought his blessing, 
brought him bread. 

Month by month, in deep seclusion, hidden in the rocky cleft, 
Dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying; once a year the cave he left. 

On that day a happy pilgrim, chosen out of all the band, 
Won a special sign of favour from the holy hermit's hand. 

Underneath the narrow window, at the doorway closely sealed, 
While the afterglow of sunset deepened round him, Felix 
kneeled. 

"Man of God, of men most holy, thou whose gifts cannot be 

priced! 
Grant me thy most precious guerdon; tell me how to find the 

Christ." 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 73 

Breathless, Felix bowed and listened, but no answering voice 

he heard; 
Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round the Mountain of 

the Bird. 

Then he said, "The saint is silent; he would teach my soul to 

wait: 
I will tarry here in patience, like a beggar at his gate." 

Near the dwelling of the hermit Felix found a rude abode 
In a shallow tomb deserted, close beside the pilgrim-road. 

So the faithful pilgrims saw him waiting there without 

complaint, — 
Soon they learned to call him holy, fed him as they fed the saint. 

Day by day he watched the sunrise flood the distant plain 

with gold, 
While the River Nile beneath him, silvery coiling, seaward 

rolled. 

Night by night he saw the planets range their glittering court 

on high, 
Saw the moon, with queenly motion, mount her throne and rule 

the sky. 

Morn advanced and midnight fled, in visionary pomp attired; 
Never morn and never midnight brought the vision long- 
desired. 



74 STORIES IN VERSE 

Now at last the day is dawning when Serapion makes his gift; 
Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly dares his eyes to lift. 

Now the cavern door uncloses, now the saint above him stands, 
Blesses him without a word, and leaves a token in his hands. 

'Tis the guerdon of thy waiting! Look, thou happy pilgrim, 

look! 
Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papyrus book. 

Read! perchance the clue to guide thee hidden in the words 

may lie: 
"Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood, and 

there am I." 

Can it be the mighty Master spake such simple words as these ? 
Can it be that men must seek Him at their toil 'mid rocks and 
trees ? 

Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from the Mountain of the Bird 
Felix mournfully descended, questioning the Master's word. 

Not for him a sacred dwelling, far above the haunts of men: 
He must turn his footsteps backward to the common life again. 

From a quarry near the river, hollowed out below the hills, 
Rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking hammers, clink* 
ing drills. 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 75 

Dust, and noise, and hot confusion made a Babel of the spot: 
There, among the lowliest workers, Felix sought and found his 
lot. 

Now he swung the ponderous mallet, smote the iron in the 

rock — 
Muscles quivering, tingling, throbbing — blow on blow and 

shock on shock; 

Now he drove the willow wedges, wet them till they swelled and 

split, 
With their silent strength, the fragment, sent it thundering 

down the pit. 

Now the groaning tackle raised it; now the rollers made it 

slide; 
Harnessed men, like beasts of burden, drew it to the river-side. 

Now the palm-trees must be riven, massive timbers hewn and 

dressed , 
Rafts to bear the stones in safety on the rushing river's breast. 

Axe and auger, saw and chisel, wrought the will of man in wood: 
'Mid the many-handed labour Felix toiled, and found it good. 

Every day the blood ran fleeter through his limbs and round his 

heart; 
Every night he slept the sweeter, knowing he had done his part. 



76 STORIES IN VERSE 

Dreams of solitary saintship faded from him; but, instead, 
Came a sense of daily comfort in the toil for daily bread. 

Far away, across the river, gleamed the white walls of the town 
Whither all the stones and timbers day by day were drifted 
down. 

There the workman saw his labour taking form and bearing 

fruit, 
Like a tree with splendid branches rising from a humble root. 

Looking at the distant city, temples, houses, domes, and 

towers, 
Felix cried in exultation: "All the mighty work is ours. 

"Every mason in the quarry, every builder on the shore, 
Every chopper in the palm-grove, every raftsman at the oar, 

"Hewing wood and drawing water, splitting stones and cleaving 

sod, 
All the dusty ranks of labour, in the regiment of God, 

"March together toward His triumph, do the task His hands 

prepare: 
Honest toil is holy service; faithful work is praise and prayer." 

While he bore the heat and burden Felix felt the sense of rest 
Flowing softly like a fountain, deep within his weary breast; 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 77 

Felt the brotherhood of labour, rising round him like a tide, 
Overflow his heart and join him to the workers at his side. 

Oft he cheered them with his singing at the breaking of the 

light, 
Told them tales of Christ at noonday, taught them words of 

prayer at night. 

Once he bent above a comrade fainting in the mid-day heat, 
Sheltered him with woven palm-leaves, gave him water, cool 
and sweet. 

Then it seemed, for one swift moment, secret radiance filled the 

place; 
Underneath the green palm-branches flashed a* look of Jesus' 

face. 

Once again, a raftsman, slipping, plunged beneath the stream 

and sank; 
Swiftly Felix leaped to rescue, caught him, drew him toward the 

bank — 

Battling with the cruel river, using all his strength to save — 
Did he dream? or was there One beside him walking on the 
wave? 

Now at last the work was ended, grove deserted, quarry stilled; 
Felix journeyed to the city that his hands had helped to build. 



78 STORIES IN VERSE 

In the darkness of the temple, at the closing hour of day, 
As of old he sought the altar, as of old he knelt to pray: 

"Hear me, O Thou hidden Master! Thou hast sent a word 

to me; 
It is written — Thy commandment — I have kept it faithfully. 

"Thou hast bid me leave the visions of the solitary life, 
Bear my part in human labour, take my share in human 
strife. 

"I have done Thy bidding, Master; raised the rock and felled 

the tree, 
Swung the axe and plied the hammer, working every day for 

Thee. 

"Once it seemed I saw Thy presence through the bending 

palm-leaves gleam; 
Once upon the flowing water — Nay, I know not, 'twas a dream ! 

"This I know: Thou hast been near me: more than this I dare 
not ask. 

Though I see Thee not, I love Thee. Let me do Thy hum- 
blest task!" 

Through the dimness of the temple slowly dawned a mystic 

light; 
There the Master stood in glory, manifest to mortal sight: 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 79 

Hands that bore the mark of labour, brow that bore the print 

of care; 
Hands of power, divinely tender; brow of light, divinely fair. 

" Hearken, good and faithful servant, true disciple, loyal friend! 
Thou hast followed me and found me; I will keep thee to the 
end. 

"Well I know thy toil and trouble; often weary, fainting, worn, 
I have lived the life of labour, heavy burdens I have borne. 

"Never in a prince's palace have I slept on golden bed, 
Never in a hermit's cavern have I eaten unearned bread. 

"Born within a lowly stable, where the cattle round me stood, 
Trained a carpenter in Nazareth, I have toiled, and found it 
good. 

"They who tread the path of labour follow where my feet have 

trod; 
They who work without complaining do the holy will of God. 

"Where the many toil together, there am I among my own; 
Where the tired workman sleepeth, there am I with him alone. 

"I, the peace that passeth knowledge, dwell amid the daily 

strife; 
I, the bread of heaven, am broken in the sacrament of life. 



8o STORIES IN VERSE 

" Every task, however simple, sets the soul that does it free; 
Every deed of love and mercy, done to man, is done to me. 

"Thou hast learned the open secret; thou hast come to me for 

rest; 
With thy burden, in thy labour, thou art Felix, doubly blest. 

"Nevermore thou needest seek me; I am with thee every- 
where; 

Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood, and I 
am there." 

Ill 
ENVOY 

The legend of Felix is ended, the toiling of Felix is done; 
The Master has paid him his wages, the goal of his journey is 

won; 
He rests, but he never is idle; a thousand years pass like a day, 
In the glad surprise of the Paradise where work is sweeter than 

play. 

Yet often the King of that country comes out from his tireless 
host, 

And walks in this world of the weary as if He loved it the most; 

For here in the dusty confusion, with eyes that are heavy and 
dim, 

He meets again the labouring men who are looking and long- 
ing for Him. 



THE TOILING OF FELIX 81 

He cancels the curse of Eden, and brings them a blessing in- 
stead: 

Blessed are they that labour, for Jesus partakes of their bread 

He puts His hand to their burdens, He enters their homes at 
night: 

Who does his best shall have as a guest the Master of life and 
light. 

And courage will come with His presence, and patience return 

at His touch, 
And manifold sins be forgiven to those who love Him much ; 
The cries of envy and anger will change to the songs of cheer, 
The toiling age will forget its rage when the Prince of Peace 

draws near. 

This is the gospel of labour, ring it, ye bells of the kirk ! 

The Lord of Love came down from above, to live with the men 

who work. 
This is the rose that He planted, here in the thorn-curst soil: 
Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of Earth is 

toil. 



82 STORIES IN VERSE 



VERA 
I 

A silent world, — yet full of vital joy 
Expressed in rhythmic movements manifold, 
And sunbeams flashing on the face of things 
Like sudden smilings of divine delight, — 
A world of many sorrows too, revealed 
In fading flowers and withering leaves and dark 
Tear-laden clouds, and tearless, clinging mists 
That hung above the earth too sad to weep, — 
A world of fluent change, and changeless flow, 
And infinite suggestion of new thoughts, 
Reflected in the mirror of the heart 
With shifting colours and dissolving forms, — 
A world of many meanings but no words, 
A silent world was Vera's home. 

For her 
The inner doors of sound were closely sealed. 
The outer portals, delicate as shells 
Suffused with faintest rose of far-off morn, 
Like underglow of daybreak in the sea, — 
The ear-gates of the garden of her soul, 
Shaded by drooping tendrils of brown hair, 
Waited in vain for messengers to pass, 



VERA 83 

And thread the labyrinth with flying feet, 
And swiftly knock upon the inmost door, 
And enter in, and speak the mystic word. 
But through those gates no message ever came. 
Only with eyes did she behold and see, — 
With eyes as luminous and bright and brown 
As waters of a woodland river, — eyes 
That questioned so they almost seemed to speak, 
And answered so they almost seemed to hear, — 
Only with wondering eyes did she behold 
The silent splendour of a soundless world. 

She saw the great wind ranging freely down 

Interminable archways of the wood, 

While tossing boughs and bending tree-tops hailed 

His coming: but no sea- tuned voice of pines, 

No roaring of the oaks, no silvery song 

Of poplars or of birches, followed him. 

He passed; they waved their arms and clapped their hands; 

But all was still. 

The torrents from the hills 
Leaped down their rocky stairways, like wild steeds 
Breaking the yoke and shaking manes of foam. 
The lowland brooks coiled smoothly through the fields, 
And softly spread themselves in glistening lakes 
Whose ripples merrily danced among the reeds. 



84 STORIES IN VERSE 

The standing waves that ever keep their place 
In the swift rapids, curled upon themselves, 
And seemed about to break and never broke; 
And all the wandering waves that fill the sea 
Came buffeting in along the stony shore, 
Or plunging in along the level sands, 
Or creeping in along the winding creeks 
And inlets. Yet from all the ceaseless flow 
And turmoil of the restless element 
Came neither song of joy nor sob of grief; 
For there were many waters, but no voice. 

Silent the actors all on Nature's stage 
Performed their parts before her watchful eyes, 
Coming and going, making war and love, 
Working and playing, all without a sound. 
The oxen drew their load with swaying necks, 
The kine came sauntering home along the lane, 
The nodding sheep were led from field to fold, 
In mute obedience. Down the woodland track 
The hounds with panting sides and lolling tongues 
Pursued their flying prey in noiseless haste. 
The birds, the most alive of living things, 
The quickest to respond to joy and fear, 
Mated, and built their nests, and reared their young, 
And swam the flood of air like tiny ships 



VERA 85 

Rising and falling over unseen waves, 
And, gathering in great navies, bore away 
To North or South, without a note of song. 

All these were Vera's playmates, and she loved 
To watch them, wondering oftentimes how well 
They knew their parts, and how the drama moved 
So swiftly, smoothly on from scene to scene 
Without confusion. But she sometimes dreamed 
There must be something hidden in the play 
Unknown to her, an utterance of life 
More clear than action and more deep than looks. 
And this she felt most deeply when she watched 
Her human comrades and the throngs of men, 
Who met and parted oft with moving lips 
That had a meaning more than she could see. 
She saw a lover bend above a maid, 
With moving lips; and though he touched her not 
A sudden rose of joy bloomed in her face. 
She saw a hater stand before his foe 
And move his lips; whereat the other shrank 
As if he had been smitten on the mouth. 
She saw the regiments of toiling men 
Marshalled in ranks and led by moving lips. 
And once she saw a sight more strange than all: 
A crowd of people sitting charmed and still 



86 STORIES IN VERSE 

Around a little company of men 

Who touched their hands in measured, rhythmic time 

To curious instruments; a woman stood 

Among them, with bright eyes and heaving breast, 

And lifted up her face and moved her lips. 

Then Vera wondered at the idle play, 

But when she looked around, she saw the glow 

Of deep delight on every face, as if 

Some visitor from a celestial world 

Had brought glad tidings. But to her alone 

No angel entered, for the choir of sound 

Was vacant in the temple of her soul, 

And worship lacked her golden crown of song. 

So when, by vision baffled and perplexed, 
She saw that all the world could not be seen, 
And knew she could not know the whole of life 
Unless a hidden gate should be unsealed, 
She felt imprisoned. In her heart there grew 
The bitter creeping plant of discontent, 
The plant that only grows in prison soil, 
Whose root is hunger and whose fruit is pain. 
The springs of still delight and tranquil joy 
Were drained as dry as desert dust to feed 
That never-flowering vine, whose tendrils clung 
With strangling touch around the bloom of life 



VERA 87 

And made it wither. Vera could not rest 
Within the limits of her silent world; 
Along its dumb and desolate paths she roamed 
A captive, looking sadly for escape. 

Now in those distant days, and in that land 

Remote, there lived a Master wonderful, 

Who knew the secret of all life, and could, 

With gentle touches and with potent words, 

Open all gates that ever had been sealed, 

And loose all prisoners whom Fate had bound. 

Obscure he dwelt, not in the wilderness, 

But in a hut among the throngs of men, 

Concealed by meekness and simplicity. 

And ever as he walked the city streets, 

Or sat in quietude beside the sea, 

Or trod the hillsides and the harvest fields, 

The multitude passed by and knew him not. 

But there were some who knew, and turned to him 

For help; and unto all who asked, he gave. 

Thus Vera came, and found him in the field, 

And knew him by the pity in his face, 

And knelt to him and held him by one hand, 

And laid the other hand upon her lips 

In mute entreaty. Then she lifted up 

The coils of hair that hung about her neck 



88 STORIES IN VERSE 

And bared the beauty of the gates of sound, — 

Those virgin gates through which no voice had passed,- 

She made them bare before the Master's sight, 

And looked into the kindness of his face 

With eyes that spoke of all her prisoned pain, 

And told her great desire without a word. 

The Master waited long in silent thought, 

As one reluctant to bestow a gift, 

Not for the sake of holding back the thing 

Entreated, but because he surely knew 

Of something better that he fain would give 

If only she would ask it. Then he stooped 

To Vera, smiling, touched her ears and spoke: 

"Open, fair gates, and you, reluctant doors, 

Within the ivory labyrinth of the ear, 

Let fall the bar of silence and unfold! 

Enter, you voices of all living things, 

Enter the garden sealed, — but softly, slowly, 

Not with a noise confused and broken tumult, — 

Come in an order sweet as I command you, 

And bring the double gift of speech and hearing." 

Vera began to hear. At first the wind 
Breathed a low prelude of the birth of sound, 
As if an organ far away were touched 



VERA 89 

By unseen fingers; then the little stream 

That hurried down the hillside, swept the harp 

Of music into merry, tinkling notes; 

And then the lark that poised above her head 

On wings a-quiver, overflowed the air 

With showers of song; and one by one the tones 

Of all things living, in an order sweet, 

Without confusion and with deepening power, 

Entered the garden sealed. And last of all 

The Master's voice, the human voice divine, 

Passed through the gates and called her by her name, 

And Vera heard. 

II 

What rapture of new life 
Must come to one for whom a silent world 
Is suddenly made vocal, and whose heart 
By the same magic is awaked at once, 
Without the learner's toil and long delay, 
Out of a night of dumbly moving dreams, 
Into a day that overflows with music! 
This joy was Vera's; and to her it seemed 
As if a new creative morn had risen 
Upon the earth, and after the full week 
When living things unfolded silently, 
And after the long, quiet Sabbath day, 



9 o STORIES IN VERSE 

When all was still, another day had dawned, 
And through the calm expectancy of heaven 
A secret voice had said, "Let all things speak." 
The world responded with an instant joy; 
And all the unseen avenues of sound 
Were thronged with varying forms of viewless life. 

To every living thing a voice was given 

Distinct and personal. The forest trees 

Were not more varied in their shades of green 

Than in their tones of speech; and every bird 

That nested in their branches had a song 

Unknown to other birds and all his own. 

The waters spoke a hundred dialects 

Of one great language; now with pattering fall 

Of raindrops on the glistening leaves, and now 

With steady roar of rivers rushing down 

To meet the sea, and now with rhythmic throb 

And measured tumult of tempestuous waves, 

And now with lingering lisp of creeping tides, — 

The manifold discourse of many waters. 

But most of all the human voice was full 

Of infinite variety, and ranged 

Along the scale of life's experience 

With changing tones, and notes both sweet and sad, 

All fitted to express some unseen thought, 



VERA 91 

Some vital motion of the hidden heart. 
So Vera listened with her new-born sense 
To all the messengers that passed the gates, 
In measureless delight and utter trust, 
Believing that they brought a true report 
From every living thing of its true life, 
And hoping that at last they would make clear 
The meaning and the mystery of the world. 

But soon there came a trouble in her joy, 

A cloud of doubt across her sky of trust, 

A note discordant that dissolved the chord 

And broke the bliss of hearing into pain. 

Not from the harsher sounds and voices wild 

Of anger and of anguish, that reveal 

The secret strife in nature, and confess 

The touch of sorrow on the heart of life, — 

From these her trouble came not. For in these, 

However sad, she felt the note of truth, 

And truth, though sad, is always musical. 

The raging of the tempest-ridden sea, 

The crash of thunder, and the hollow moan 

Of winds complaining round the mountain-crags, 

The shrill and quavering cry of birds of prey, 

The fiercer roar of conflict-loving beasts, — 

All these wild sounds are potent in their place 



92 STORIES IN VERSE 

Within life's mighty symphony; the charm 

Of truth attunes them, and the hearing ear 

Finds pleasure in their rude sincerity. 

Even the broken and tumultuous noise 

That rises from great cities, where the heart 

Of human toil is beating heavily 

With ceaseless murmurs of the labouring pulse., 

Is not a discord; for it speaks to life 

Of life unfeigned, and full of hopes and fears, 

And touched through all the trouble of its notes 

With something real and therefore glorious. 

One voice alone of all that sound on earth, 

Is hateful to the soul, and full of pain, — 

The voice of falsehood. So when Vera heard 

This mocking voice, and knew that it was false; 

When first she learned that human lips can speak 

The thing that is not, and betray the ear 

Of simple trust with treachery of words; 

The joy of hearing withered in her heart. 

For now she felt that faithless messengers 

Could pass the open and unguarded gates 

Of sound, and bring a message all untrue, 

Or half a truth that makes the deadliest lie, 

Or idle babble, neither false nor true, 

But hollow to the heart, and meaningless. 



VERA 93 

She heard the flattering voices of deceit, 
That mask the hidden purposes of men 
With fair attire of favourable words, 
And hide the evil in the guise of good. 
The voices vain and decorous and smooth, 
That fill the world with empty-hearted talk; 
The foolish voices, wandering and confused, 
That cannot clearly speak the thing they would, 
But ramble blindly round their true intent 
And tangle sense in hopeless coils of sound, — 
All these she heard, and with a sad mistrust 
Began to doubt the value of her gift. 
It seemed as if the world, the living world, 
Sincere, and deep, and real, were still concealed, 
And she, within the prison of her soul, 
Still waiting silently to hear the voice 
Of perfect knowledge and of perfect peace. 

So with the burden of her discontent 
She turned to seek the Master once again, 
And found him sitting in the market-place, 
Half-hidden in the shadow of a porch, 
Alone among the careless crowd. 

She spoke: 
"Thy gift was great, dear Master, and my heart 
Has thanked thee many times because I hear. 



94 STORIES IN VERSE 

But I have learned that hearing is not all; 
For underneath the speech of men, there flows 
Another current of their hidden thoughts; 
Behind the mask of language I perceive 
The eyes of things unuttered; and I feel 
The throbbing of the real heart of the world 
Beneath the robe of words. Touch me again, 
O Master, with thy liberating hand, 
And free me from the bondage of deceit. 
Open another gate, and let me hear 
The secret thoughts and purposes of men; 
For only thus my heart will be at rest, 
And only thus, at last, I shall perceive 
The meaning and the mystery of the world." 

The Master's face was turned away from her; 
His eyes looked far away, as if he saw 
Something beyond her sight; and yet she knew 
That he was listening; for her pleading voice 
No sooner ceased than he put forth his hand 
To touch her brow, and very gently spoke: 
"Thou seekest for thyself a wondrous gift, — 
The opening of the second gate, a gift 
That many wise men have desired in vain: 
But some have found it, — whether well or ill 
For their own peace, they have attained the power 



VERA 95 

To hear unspoken thoughts of other men. 

And thou hast begged this gift? Thou shalt receive, — 

Not knowing what thou seekest, — it is thine: 

The second gate is open! Thou shalt hear 

All that men think and feel within their hearts: 

Thy prayer is granted, daughter, go thy way! 

But if thou findest sorrow on this path, 

Come back again, — there is a path to peace." 

Ill 

Beyond our power of vision, poets say, 
There is another world of forms unseen, 
Yet visible to purer eyes than ours. 
And if the crystal of our sight were clear, 
We should behold the mountain-slopes of cloud, 
The moving meadows of the untilled sea, 
The groves of twilight and the dales of dawn, 
And every wide and lonely field of air, 
More populous than cities, crowded close 
With living creatures of all shapes and hues. 
But if that sight were ours, the things that now 
Engage our eyes would seem but dull and dim 
Beside the wonders of our new-found world, 
And we should be amazed and overwhelmed 
Not knowing how to use the plenitude 
Of vision. 



96 STORIES IN VERSE 

So in Vera's soul, at first, 
The opening of the second gate of sound 
Let in confusion like a whirling flood. 
The murmur of a myriad- throated mob; 
The trampling of an army through a place 
Where echoes hide; the sudden, whistling flight 
Of an innumerable flock of birds 
Along the highway of the midnight sky; 
The many-whispered rustling of the reeds 
Beneath the passing feet of all the winds; 
The long-drawn, inarticulate, wailing cry 
Of million-pebbled beaches when the lash 
Of falling waves is drawn across their back, — 
All these were less bewildering than to hear 
What now she heard at Once: the tangled sound 
Of all that moves within the minds of men. 
For now there was no measured flow of words 
To mark the time; nor any interval 
Of silence to repose the listening ear. 
But through the dead of night, and through the calm 
Of weary noon-tide, through the solemn hush 
That fills the temple in the pause of praise, 
And through the breathless awe in rooms of death, 
She heard the ceaseless motion and the stir 
Of never-silent hearts, that fill the world 
With interwoven thoughts of good and ill, 



VERA 97 

With mingled music of delight and grief, 
With songs of love, and bitter cries of hate, 
With hymns of faith, and dirges of despair, 
And murmurs deeper and more vague than all, — 
Thoughts that are born and die without a name, 
Or rather, never die, but haunt the soul, 
With sad persistence, till a name is given. 
These Vera heard, at first with mind perplexed 
And half-benumbed by the disordered sound. 
But soon a clearer sense began to pierce 
The cloudy turmoil with discerning power. 
She learned to know the tones of human thought 
As plainly as she knew the tones of speech. 
She could divide the evil from the good, 
Interpreting the language of the mind, 
And tracing every feeling like a thread 
Within the mystic web the passions weave 
From heart to heart around the living world. 

But when at last the Master's second gift 
Was perfected within her, and she heard 
And understood the secret thoughts of men, 
A sadness fell upon her, and the weight 
Of an intolerable knowledge pressed her down 
With weary wishes to know more, or less. 
For all she knew was like a broken word 



9 8 STORIES IN VERSE 

Inscribed upon the fragment of a ring; 
And all she heard was like a troubled strain 
Preluding music that is never played. 

Then she remembered in her sad unrest 

The Master's parting word, — "a path to peace,"— 

And turned again to seek him with her grief. 

She found him in a hollow of the hills, 

Beside a little spring that issued forth 

From broken rocks and filled an emerald cup 

With never-failing water. There he sat, 

With waiting looks that welcomed her afar. 

"I know that thou hast heard, my child," he said, 

"For all the wonder of the world of sound 

Is written in thy face. But hast thou heard, 

Among the many voices, one of peace? 

And is thy heart that hears the secret thoughts, 

The hidden wishes and desires of men, 

Content with hearing? Art thou satisfied?" 

"Nay, Master," she replied, "thou knowest well 

That I am not at rest, nor have I heard 

The voice of perfect peace; but what I hear 

Brings me disquiet and a troubled mind. 

The evil voices in the souls of men, 

Voices of rage and cruelty and fear 

Have not dismayed me; for I have believed 



VERA 99 

The voices of the good, the kind, the true, 

Are more in number and excel in strength. 

There is more love than hate, more hope than fear, 

In the deep throbbing of the human heart. 

But while I listen to the troubled sound, 

One thing torments me, and destroys my rest 

And presses me with dull, unceasing pain. 

For out of all the minds of all mankind, 

There rises evermore a questioning voice 

That asks the meaning of this mighty world 

And finds no answer, — asks, and asks again, 

With patient pleading or with wild complaint, 

But wakens no response, except the sound 

Of other questions, wandering to and fro, 

From other souls in doubt. And so this voice 

Persists above all others that I hear, 

And binds them up together into one, 

Until the mingled murmur of the world 

Sounds through the inner temple of my heart 

Like an eternal question, vainly asked, 

By every human soul that thinks and feels. 

This is the heaviness that weighs me down, 

And this the pain that will not let me rest. 

Therefore, dear Master, shut the gates again, 

And let me live in silence as before! 

Or else, — and if there is indeed a gate 



ioo STORIES IN VERSE 

Unopened yet, through which I might receive 
An answer in the voice of perfect peace — " 

She ceased; and in her upward faltering tone 
The question echoed. 

Then the Master said: 
"There is another gate, not yet unclosed. 
For through the outer portal of the ear 
Only the outer voice of things may pass; 
And through the middle doorway of the mind 
Only the half-formed voice of human thoughts. 
Uncertain and perplexed with endless doubt; 
But through the inmost gate the spirit hears 
The voice of that great Spirit who is Life. 
Beneath the tones of living things He breathes 
A deeper tone than ever ear hath heard; 
And underneath the troubled thoughts of men 
He thinks forever, and His thought is peace. 
Behold, I touch thee once again, my child: 
The third and last of those three hidden gates 
That closed around thy soul and shut thee in, 
Is open now, and thou shalt truly hear." 

Then Vera heard. The spiritual gate 
Was opened softly as a full-blown flower 
Unfolds its heart to welcome in the dawn, 



VERA 101 

And on her listening face there shone a light 
Of still amazement and completed joy 
In the full gift of hearing. 

What she heard 
I cannot tell; nor could she ever tell 
In words; because all human words are vain, 
There is no speech nor language, to express 
The secret messages of God, that make 
Perpetual music in the hearing heart. 
Below the voice of waters, and above 
The wandering voice of winds, and underneath 
The song of birds and all the varying tones 
Of living things that fill the world with sound, 
God spoke to her, and what she heard was peace. 

So when the Master questioned, "Dost thou hear?" 

She answered, "Yea, at last I hear." And then 

He asked her once again, "What hearest thou? 

What means the voice of Life?" She answered, "Love! 

For love is life, and they who do not love 

Are not alive. But every soul that loves, 

Lives in the heart of God and hears Him speak." 

1898. 



io2 STORIES IN VERSE 



ANOTHER CHANCE 

A DRAMATIC LYRIC 

Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death ! 
Uncrook your fingers from my throat, and let me draw my 

breath. 
You do me wrong to take me now — too soon for me to die — 
Ah, loose me from this clutching pain, and hear the reason why. 

I know I've had my forty years, and wasted every one; 
And yet, I tell you honestly, my life is just begun; 
I've walked the world like one asleep, a dreamer in a trance; 
But now you've gripped me wide awake — I want another 
chance. 

My dreams were always beautiful, my thoughts were high and 

fine; 
No life was ever lived on earth to match those dreams of mine. 
And would you wreck them unfulfilled? What folly, nay, 

what crime! 
You rob the world, you waste a soul ; give me a little time. 

You'll hear me? Yes, I'm sure you will, my hope is not in 

vain: 
I feel the even pulse of peace, the sweet relief from pain; 



ANOTHER CHANCE 103 

The black fog rolls away from me; I'm free once more to plan: 
Another chance is all I need to prove myself a man ! 

The world is full of warfare 'twixt the evil and the good; 
I watched the battle from afar as one who understood 
The shouting and confusion, the bloody, blundering fight — 
How few there are that see it clear, how few that wage it right! 

The captains flushed with foolish pride, the soldiers pale with 

fear, 
The faltering flags, the feeble fire from ranks that swerve and 

veer, 
The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts, the coward hearts that 

flee— 
The good cause needs a nobler knight to win the victory. 

A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose sword is bright 

and keen, 
Who knows the splendour of the fight and what its issues mean; 
Who never takes one step aside, nor halts, though hope be dim, 
But cleaves a pathway thro' the strife, and bids men follow him. 

No blot upon his stainless shield, no weakness in his arm ; 
No sign of trembling in his face to break his valour's charm: 
A man like this could stay the flight and lead the wavering line; 
Ah, give me but a year of life — I'll make that glory mine! 



io 4 STORIES IN VERSE 

Religion? Yes, I know it well; I've heard its prayers and 

creeds, 
And seen men put them all to shame with poor, half-hearted 

deeds. 
They follow Christ, but far away; they wander and they doubt. 
I'll serve him in a better way, and live his precepts out. 

You see, I waited just for this; I could not be content 
To own a feeble, faltering faith with human weakness blent. 
Too many runners in the race move slowly, stumble, fall; 
But I will run so straight and swift I shall outstrip them all. 

Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid their foolish strife, 
To see the clear, unshadowed light of one true Christian life, 
Without a touch of selfishness, without a taint of sin, — 
With one short month of such a life a new world would begin! 

And love! — I often dream of that — the treasure of the earth; 
How little they who use the coin have realised its worth ! 
'Twill pay all debts, enrich all hearts, and make all joys secure. 
But love, to do its perfect work, must be sincere and pure. 

My heart is full of virgin gold. I'll pour it out and spend 
My hidden wealth with open hand on all who call me friend. 
Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the largess of relief, 
The generous fellowship of joy, the sympathy of grief. 



ANOTHER CHANCE 105 

I'll say the loyal, helpful things that make life sweet and fair, 
I'll pay the gratitude I owe for human love and care. 
Perhaps I've been at fault sometimes — I'll ask to be forgiven, 
And make this little room of mine seem like a bit of heaven. 

For one by one I'll call my friends to stand beside my bed; 
I'll speak the true and tender words so often left unsaid; 
And every heart shall throb and glow, all coldness melt away 
Around my altar-fire of love — ah, give me but one day! 

What's that? I've had another day, and wasted it again? 
A priceless day in empty dreams, another chance in vain? 
Thou fool — this night — it's very dark — the last — this choking 

breath — 
One prayer — have mercy on a dreamer's soul — God, this is 

death! 



io6 STORIES IN VERSE 



A LEGEND OF SERVICE 

It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) 

To hear, one day, report from those who came 

With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, 

To tell of earthly tasks in His employ. 

For some were grieved because they saw how slow 

The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; 

And some were glad because their eyes had seen, 

Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green. 

At last, before the whiteness of the throne 

The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; 

Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, 

And thus his tidings to the Master brought: 

"Lord, in the city Lupon I have found 

" Three servants of thy holy name, renowned 

"Above their fellows. One is very wise, 

"With thoughts that ever range beyond the skies; 

"And one is gifted with the golden speech 

"That makes men gladly hear when he will teach; 

"And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, 

"Has won the people's love by doing good. 

"With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; 

"But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best?" 



A LEGEND OF SERVICE 107 

Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look 

The hearts of all are like an open book: 

"In every soul the secret thought I read, 

"And well I know who loves me best indeed. 

"But every life has pages vacant still, 

"Whereon a man may write the thing he will; 

"Therefore I read the record, day by day, 

"And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way. 

"But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three 

"Who serve me there, and take this word from me: 

"Tell each of them his Master bids him go 

"Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; 

"There he shall find a certain task for me: 

"But what, I do not tell to them nor thee. 

"Give thou the message, make my word the test, 

"And crown for me the one who loves me best." 

Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, 

To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; 

Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, 

And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate. 

First to the Temple door he made his way; 
And there, because it was a holy-day, 
He saw the folk in thousands thronging, stirred 
By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word. 
Then, while the people whispered Bernol's name, 



ioS STORIES IN VERSE 

Through aisles that hushed behind him Bernol came; 

Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might, 

With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight. 

One moment at the pulpit step he knelt 

In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt 

The angel's hand: — "The Master bids thee go 

"Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, 

"To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face 

Went white as death, and for about the space 

Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; 

Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "Why?" 

But answer to his question came there none; 

The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone. 

Within the humble house where Malvin spent 

His studious years, on holy things intent, 

Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found 

The saintly sage immersed in thought profound, 

Weaving with patient toil and willing care 

A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: 

A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet, 

And needing but one thread to be complete. 

Then Asmiel touched his hand, and broke the thread 

Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, 

"The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go 

"Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, 



A LEGEND OF SERVICE 109 

"To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise 

Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes. 

The broken thought, the strangeness of the call, 

The perilous passage of the mountain-wall, 

The solitary journey, and the length 

Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength, 

Appalled him. With a doubtful brow 

He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered "How?" 

But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, 

With cold, disheartened voice, "I do not know." 

Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek 

The third and last to whom God bade him speak, 

Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet 

But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street, 

With ready heart that faced his work like play, 

And joyed to find it greater every day! 

The angel stopped him with uplifted hand, 

And gave without delay his Lord's command: 

"He whom thou servest here would have thee go 

"Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, 

"To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again 

The eager answer leaped to meet him, "When?" 

The angel's face with inward joy grew bright, 
And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; 



no STORIES IN VERSE 

He took the golden circlet from his brow 
And gave the crown to Fermor, answering, " Now ! 
"For thou hast met the Master's hidden test, 
"And I have found the man who loves Him best. 
"Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply 
"When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?' 
"He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; 
"Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust." 
February, 1902. 



fe 



THE WHITE BEES in 



THE WHITE BEES 

I 

LEGEND 

Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds, 
Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees." 

Golden were the hives, and golden was the honey; golden, too, 
the music, 
Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees. 

Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wandered in tb~ orchard, 

Careless and contented, indolent and free; 

■P 
Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, till the fated 

moment 

When across his pathway came Eurydice. 

Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; drove him 
wild with longing, 
For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; 
Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, over mead and 
mountain, 
On through field and forest, in a breathless race. 

But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; like a dream she 
vanished; 
Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead! 



ii2 STORIES IN VERSE 

Lonely Aristeus, sadly home returning, found his garden empty, 
All the hives deserted, all the music fled. 

Mournfully bewailing, — "ah, my honey-makers, where have 
you departed?" 
Far and wide he sought them, over sea and shore; 
Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them 
home in triumph, — 
Joys that once escape us fly for evermore. 

Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell 
the honey-makers, b 

In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: 
And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering 
mystic harvest, — 
So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees. 

II 

THE SWARMING OF THE BEES 

Who can -tell the hiding of the white bees' nest? 

Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight? 
Far would be his riding on a lifelong quest: 

Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white. 

Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, 
Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, 



THE WHITE BEES 113 

May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing 
Murmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bells call. 

Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky, 
Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze, 

Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, 
Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees. 



Out of the high-built airy hive, 
Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, 
Look how the first of the swarm arrive; 
Timidly venturing, one by one, 
Down through the tranquil air, 
Wavering here and there, 
Large, and lazy in flight, — 
Caught by a lift of the breeze, 
Tangled among the naked trees, — 
Dropping then, without a sound, 
Feather-white, feather-light, 
To their rest on the ground. 



Thus the swarming is begun. 
Count the leaders, every one 
Perfect as a perfect star 
Till the slow descent is done. 



ii4 STORIES IN VERSE 

Look beyond them, see how far 
Down the vistas dim and grey, 
Multitudes are on the way. 
Now a sudden brightness 
Dawns within the sombre day, 
Over fields of whiteness; 
And the sky is swiftly alive 
With the nutter and the flight 
Of the shimmering bees, that pour 
From the hidden door of the hive 
Till you can count no more. 



Now on the branches of hemlock and pine 
Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, 
Bending them low; and the trellised vine 
And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line 
Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. 
Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, 

Softly, softly, covering all, 
Over the grave of the summer hours 

Spreading a silver pall. 
Now they are building the broad roof ledge, 
Into a cornice smooth and fair, 
Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, 
Into the sweep of a marble stair. 
Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, 



THE WHITE BEES 115 

Numberless myriads, still they come, 
Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! 
Where is their queen? Who is their master? 
The gardens are faded, the fields are frore, — 
What is the honey they toil to store 
In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? 
F or getf ulness and a dream! 



But now the fretful wind awakes; 
I hear him girding at the trees; 
He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes 
The quiet clusters of the bees 
To powdery 7 drift; 

He tosses them away, 

He drives them like spray; 
He makes them veer and shift 

Around his blustering path. 

In clouds blindly whirling, 

In rings madly swirling, 

Full of crazy wrath, 
So furious and fast they fly 
They blur the earth and blot the sky 

In wild, white mirk. 
They fill the air with frozen wings 
And tiny, angry, icy stings; 
They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, 



n6 STORIES IN VERSE 

They dance a maddening dance of death 

Around their work, 
Sweeping the cover from the hill, 
Heaping the hollows deeper still, 
Effacing every line and mark, 
And swarming, storming in the dark 

Through the long night; 
Until, at dawn, the wind lies down 

Weary of fight; 
The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, 
Passes the open gates of light; 
And the white bees are lost in flight. 

k 

Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, 

Bright with a pure surprise! 
The day begins with joy, and all past ill, 

Buried in white oblivion, lies 
Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies. 
New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, 
Flow in the sunrise beam, — 
The gladness of Apollo when he sees, 
Upon the bosom of the wintry year, 
The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, 

Forgetfulness and a dream! 



THE WHITE BEES 117 

III 
LEGEND 

Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a tranquil 
vision, 
Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; 

Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is the ending- 
Listen while I tell you how he found release. 

Many months he wandered far away in sadness, desolately 
thinking 
Only of the vanished joys he could not find; 
Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him from the 
burden 
Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind. 

Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty of the chan- 
ging seasons, 
In the world-wide regions where his journey lay; 
Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed beside him, 
stars that shone to guide him, — 
Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way! 

Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him welcome, list- 
ened while he taught them 
Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: 



n8 STORIES IN VERSE 

How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful; how to 
guard the sheepfolds; 
How to stay the fever when the dog-stan burned. 

Friendliness and blessing followed in his footsteps; richer were 
the harvests, 
Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; 
Little children loved him, and he left behind him, in the hour 
of parting, 
Memories of kindness and a god-like name. 

So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in his seek- 
ing, 
Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; 
Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus, far from 
human dwelling, 
Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest. 

Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, fluttered soft 
around him, 
Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep. 
This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, then a troubled 
journey, 
Joy and pain of seeking, — and at last we sleep! 
1905. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 119 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 



The other night I had a dream, most clear 

And comforting, complete 

In every line, a crystal sphere, 

And full of intimate and secret cheer. 

Therefore I will repeat 

That vision, dearest heart, to you, 

As of a thing not feigned, but very true, 

Yes, true as ever in my life befell; 

And you, perhaps, can tell 

Whether my dream was really sad or sweet. 

II 

The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street 

I knew so well, long, long ago; 

And on the pillared porch where Marguerite 

Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. 

But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, 

Most gaily wise, 

Most innocently loved, — 

She of the blue-grey eyes 

That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth, — 



120 STORIES IN VERSE 

From that familiar dwelling, where she moved 

Like mirth incarnate in the years before, 

Had gone into the hidden house of Death. 

I thought the garden wore 

White mourning for her blessed innocence, 

And the syringa's breath 

Came from the corner by the fence, 

Where she had made her rustic seat, 

With fragrance passionate, intense, 

As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. 

My heart was heavy with a sense 

Of something good for ever gone. I sought 

Vainly for some consoling thought, 

Some comfortable word that I could say 

To her sad father, whom I visited again 

For the first time since she had gone away. 

The bell rang shrill and lonely, — then 

The door was opened, and I sent my name 

To him, — but ah! 'twas Marguerite who came! 

There in the dear old dusky room she stood 

Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, 

In tender mocking mood. 

"You did not ask for me," she said, 

"And so I will not let you take my hand; 

"But I must hear what secret talk you planned 

"With father. Come, my friend, be good, 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 121 

"And tell me your affairs of state: 

"Why you have stayed away and made me wait 

"So long. Sit down beside me here, — 

"And, do 'you know, it seems a year 

"Since we have talked together, — why so late?" 

Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy 

I hardly dared to show, 

And stammering like a boy, 

I took the place she showed me at her side; 

And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide 

Through the still night, 

While she with influence light 

Controlled it, as the moon the flood. 

She knew where I had been, what I had done, 

What work was planned, and what begun; 

My troubles, failures, fears she understood, 

And touched them with a heart so kind, 

That every care was melted from my mind, 

And every hope grew bright, 

And life seemed moving on to happy ends. 

(Ah, what self-beggared fool was he 

That said a woman cannot be 

The very best of friends?) 

Then there were memories of old times, 

Recalled with many a gentle jest; 



i22 STORIES IN VERSE 

And at the last she brought the book of rhymes 

We made together, trying to translate 

The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). 

"Now come," she said, 

"To-night we will collaborate 

"Again; I'll put you to the test. 

"Here's one I never found the way to do, — 

"The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,— 

"I give this song to you." 

And then she read: 

Mein kind, wir waren Kinder, 
Zwei Kinder, jung undfroh. 
* , .... 

But all the while, a silent question stirred 
Within me, though I dared not speak the word: 
"Is it herself, and is she truly here, 
"And was I dreaming when I heard 
"That she was dead last year? 
"Or was it true, and is she but a shade 
"Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, 
"Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade 
"When her sweet ghostly part is played 
"And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?" 

But while my heart was troubled by this fear 
So deeply that I could not speak it out, 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 123 

Lest all my happiness should disappear, 

I thought me of a cunning way 

To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. 

"Will you not give me now your hand, 

"Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, 

"That by this token I may understand 

"You are the same true friend you were of old?" 

She answered with a smile so bright and calm 

It seemed as if I saw the morn arise 

In the deep heaven of her eyes; 

And smiling so, she laid her palm 

In mine. Dear God, it was not cold 

But warm with vital heat! 

"You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!" 

Then I awoke; but strangely comforted, 

Although I knew again that she was dead. 



in 

Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad? 
Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, 
Present reward of all my heart's desire, 
Watching with me beside the winter fire, 
Interpret now this vision that I had. 
But while you read the meaning, let me keep 
The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm 



i2 4 STORIES IN VERSE 

Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake 

The corners of the house, — and oh ! my heart would break 

Unless both dreaming and awake 

My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm! 

1905. 



THE VAIN KING 125 



THE VAIN KING 

In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, 

A jewelled collar shone upon his breast, 

A giant ruby glittered in his crown — 

Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town. 

In him the glories of an ancient line 

Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine, 

Were centred; and to him with loyal awe 

The people looked for leadership and law. 

Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land, 

Were like a single sword within his hand; 

A hundred courts, with power of life and death, 

Proclaimed decrees of justice by his breath; 

And all the sacred growths that men had known 

Of order and of rule upheld his throne. 

Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart 

As fits a man to play a royal part. 

Not his the pride that honours as a trust 

The right to rule, the duty to be just: 

Not his the dignity that bends to bear 

The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care, 

And labours like the peasant at his gate, 



126 STORIES IN VERSE 

To serve the people and protect the State. 

Another pride was his, and other joys: 

To him the crown and sceptre were but toys, 

With which he played at glory's idle game, 

To please himself and win the wreaths of fame. 

The throne his fathers held from age to age, 

To his ambition seemed a fitting stage 

Built for King Martin to display at will, 

His mighty strength and universal skill. 

No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries 

At every step to win admiring eyes, 

No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws 

From gaping crowds the thunder of applause, 

Was vainer than the King: his only thirst 

Was to be hailed, in every race, the first. 

When tournament was held, in knightly guise 

The King would ride the lists and win the prize; 

When music charmed the court, with golden lyre 

The King would take the stage and lead the choir; 

In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar; 

In hawking, see his falcon highest soar; 

In painting, he would wield the master's brush; 

In high debate, — "the King is speaking! Hush!" 

Thus, with a restless heart, in every field 

He sought renown, and made his subjects yield. 

But while he played the petty games of life 



THE VAIN KING 127 

His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife; 
Corruption through the court unheeded crept, 
And on the seat of honour justice slept. 
The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor 
Groaned under burdens grievous to endure; 
The nation's wealth was spent in vain display, 
And weakness wore the nation's heart away. 

Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes — 
Man has more friends and helpers than he knows; 
And when a patient people are oppressed, 
The land that bore them feels it in her breast. 
Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill, 
Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill; 
The trees complain together in the night, 
Voices of wrath are heard along the height, 
And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, 
To bring the tyrant low and free the land. 

But little recked the pampered King of these; 
He heard no voice but such as praise and please. 
Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport, 
One day he wandered idly with his court 
Beside the river, seeking to devise 
New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes. 
There in the stream a patient angler stood. 



128 STORIES IN VERSE 

And cast his line across the rippling flood. 
His silver spoil lay near him on the green: 
"Such fish," the courtiers cried, "were never seen! 
"Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard shaft — 
"This man must be the master of his craft!" 
"An easy art!" the jealous King replied: 
"Myself could learn it better, if I tried, 
"And catch a hundred larger fish a week — 
"Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!" 
The angler turned, came near, and bent his knee: 
"'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; 
"Yet if the King commands it, I obey. 
"But one condition of the strife I pray: 
"The fisherman who brings the least to land 
"Shall do whate'er the other may command." 
Loud laughed the King: "A foolish fisher thou! 
"For I shall win, and rule thee then as now." 

Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate 
And slow, King Martin left the helm of State, 
While to the novel game with eager zest 
He all his time and all his powers addressed. 
Sure such a sight was never seen before! 
In robe and crown the monarch trod the shore; 
His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine, 
His jewelled reel ran out a silken line. 



THE VAIN KING 129 

With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream; 
Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam; 
Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain 
The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain. 
On Friday, when the week was almost spent, 
He scanned his empty creel with discontent, 
Called for a net, and cast it far and wide, 
And drew — a thousand minnows from the tide! 
Then came the angler to conclude the match, 
And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch — 
A hundred salmon, greater than before. 
"I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score." 
Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down: 
"Rather than lose this game I'd lose my crown!" 
"Nay, thou hast lost them both," the angler said; 
And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed 
Around his form; he dropped his garments mean, 
And in his place the River-god was seen. 
"Thy vanity has brought thee in my power, 
"And thou must pay the forfeit at this hour: 
"For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool, 
"Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule, 
"Eager to win in every trivial strife, — 
"Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!" 
Wrathful, the King the magic sentence heard; 
He strove to answer, but he only chirr-r-ed: 



i 3 o STORIES IN VERSE 

His royal robe was changed to wings of blue, 
His crown a ruby crest, — away he flew! 

So every summer day along the stream 
The vain King-fisher darts, an azure gleam, 
And scolds the angler with a mocking scream. 
April, 1904. 



THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE 131 



THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE 

A tale that the poet Rilckert told 
To German children, in days of old; 
Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme 
Like a merry mummer of ancient time, 
A nd sent, in its English dress, to please 
The little folk of the Christmas trees. 

A little fir grew in the midst of the wood 
Contented and happy, as young trees should. 
His body was straight and his boughs were clean; 
And summer and winter the bountiful sheen 
Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, 
In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit. 

But a trouble came into his heart one day, 
When he saw that the other trees were gay 
In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves 
Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: 
He looked at his needles so stiff and small, 
And thought that his dress was the poorest of all. 
Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind, 
And he said to himself, " It was not very kind 
"To give such an ugly old dress to a tree! 
"If the fays of the forest would only ask me, 
"I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed, — 



132 STORIES IN VERSE 

"In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!" 
So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad. 
When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; 
For every leaf that his boughs could hold 
Was made of the brightest beaten gold. 
I tell you, children, the tree was proud; 
He was something above the common crowd; 
And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say 
To a pedlar who happened to pass that way, 
"Just look at me! Don't you think I am fine? 
"And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?" 
"Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess 
"I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress." 
So he picked the golden leaves with care, 
And left the little tree shivering there. 

"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?" 
The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves 
"Would be sure to rob me in passing by. 
"If the fairies would give me another try, 
"I'd wish for something that cost much less, 
"And be satisfied with glass for my dress!" 
Then he fell asleep; and, just as before, 
The fairies granted his wish once more. 
When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear, 
The tree was a crystal chandelier; 



THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE 133 

And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light, 
That his branches were covered with jewels bright. 
"Aha!" said the tree. "This is something great!" 
And he held himself up, very proud and straight; 
But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, 
In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed 
The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound 
They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, 
Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, 
And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale. 

Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas 
"For my beautiful leaves of shining glass! 
"Perhaps I have made another mistake 
"In choosing a dress so easy to break. 
"If the fairies only would hear me again 
"I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: 
"It wouldn't cost much to grant my request, — 
"In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!" 
By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; 
But they gave him his wish in a second; and so 
With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet, 
The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet. 
"I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find 
"The sort of a suit that would be to my mind. 
"There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, 



i 3 4 STORIES IN VERSE 

"And none as attractive as I am, I guess." 
But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk, 
By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk. 
So he came up close for a nearer view; — 
"My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too! 
"You're the most attractive kind of a tree, 
"And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea." 
So he ate them all without saying grace, 
And walked away with a grin on his face; 
While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, 
With never a leaf on a single limb. 

Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak- 
He was so ashamed that he could not speak. 
He knew at last he had been a fool, 
To think of breaking the forest rule, 
And choosing a dress himself to please, 
Because he envied the other trees. 
But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late, 
He must make up his mind to a leafless fate! 
So he let himself sink in a slumber deep, 
But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep, 
Till the morning touched him with joyful beam, 
And he woke to find it was all a dream. 
For there in his evergreen dress he stood, 
A pointed fir in the midst of the wood! 



THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE 135 

His branches were sweet with the balsam smell, 
His needles were green when the white snow fell. 
And always contented and happy was he, — 
The very best kind of a Christmas tree. 



PRO PATRIA 



PATRIA 

I would not even ask my heart to say 
If I could love another land as well 
As thee, my country, had I felt the spell 

Of Italy at birth, or learned to obey 

The charm of France, or England's mighty sway. 
I would not be so much an infidel 
As once to dream, or fashion words to tell, 

What land could hold my heart from thee away. 

For like a law of nature in my blood 
I feel thy sweet and secret sovereignty, 
And woven through my soul thy vital sign. 
My life is but a wave and thou the flood; 
I am a leaf and thou the mother-tree; 
Nor should I be at all, were I not thine. 
June, 1904. 



139 



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AMERICA 

I love thine inland seas, 
Thy groves of giant trees, 

Thy rolling plains; 
Thy rivers' mighty sweep, 
Thy mystic canyons deep, 
Thy mountains wild and steep, 

All thy domains; 

Thy silver Eastern strands, 
Thy Golden Gate that stands 

Wide to the West; 
Thy flowery Southland fair, 
Thy sweet and crystal air, — 
O land beyond compare, 

Thee I love best! 
March, 1906. 



THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS 141 



THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS 

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, 
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour; 
They are simple enough to be great in their friendly dignity, — 
Homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation. 

I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys, 
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them: 
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned 

roses, 
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the 

windows, 
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready 

for winter, 
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household 

relics, — 
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance. 

I love the weather-beaten, shingled houses that front the 

ocean; 
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something 

indomitable about them: 



i 4 2 PRO PATRIA 

Their backs are bowed, and their sides are covered with 

lichens; 
Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of a patient 

courage. 
Facing the briny wind on a lonely shore they stand undaunted, 
While the thin blue pennant of smoke from the square-built 

chimney 
Tells of a haven for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle. 

I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white 

columns, 
They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton 

is growing; 
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches, 
Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full 

of hounds and horses. 
Long since the riders have ridden away, yet the houses have 

not forgotten, 
They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are 

always open, 
For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient 

hospitality. 

In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings, 
With their demure brick faces and immaculate marble door- 
steps; 



THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS 143 

And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and 
iron railings, 

(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning sun- 
light); 

And the solid self-contained houses of the descendants of the 
Puritans, 

Frowning on the street with their narrow doors and dormer- 
windows; 

And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston, 

Standing open sideways in their gardens of roses and magnolias. 

Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are 

beautiful; 
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have 

made the nation; 
The glory and strength of America come from her ancestral 

dwellings. 
July, 1909. 



i 4 4 £RO PATRIA 



HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 

THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY 
June 22, 1611 

One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, 

And only one! For never ship but mine 

Has dared these waters. We were first, 

My men, to battle in between the bergs 

And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine; 

I name it! and that flying sail is mine! 

And there, hull-down below that flying sail, 

The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine! 

My ship Discoverie! 

The sullen dogs 
Of mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatched 
Their food and bit the hand that nourished them, 
Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene, 
I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch, 
And paid your debts, and kept you in my house, 
And brought you here to make a man of you ! 
You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man, 
Toothless and tremulous, how many times 



HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 145 

Have I employed you as a master's mate 

To give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett, 

You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan, 

You knew the plot and silently agreed, 

Salving your conscience with a pious lie! 

Yes, all of you — hounds, rebels, thieves! Bring back 

My ship! 

Too late, — I rave, — they cannot hear 
My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh 
Would be their answer; for their minds have caught 
The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve, 
That looks like courage but is only fear. 
They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, and drown,— 
Or blunder home to England and be hanged. 
Their skeletons will rattle in the chains 
Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs, 
While passing mariners look up and say: 
"Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men 
"Who left their captain in the frozen North!" 

O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained 
Plans of the wise and actions of the brave 
Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards? 

Look, — there she goes, — her topsails in the sun 
Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop 



146 x PRO PATRIA 

Clean out of sight! So let the traitors go 
Clean out of mind! We'll think of braver things! 
Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King, 
You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west. 
You Philip StafTe, the only one who chose 
Freely to share our little shallop's fate, 
Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship, — 
Too good an English sailor to desert 
Your crippled comrades, — try to make them rest 
More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son, 
My little shipmate, come and lean your head 
Against my knee. Do you remember still 
The April morn in Ethelburga's church, 
Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled 
To take the sacrament with all our men, 
Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docks 
On our first voyage ? It was then I vowed 
My sailor-soul and yours to search the sea 
Until we found the water-path that leads 
From Europe into Asia. 

I believe 
That God has poured the ocean round His world, 
Not to divide, but to unite the lands. 
And all the English captains that have dared 
In little ships to plough uncharted waves, — 
Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, 



HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 147 

Raleigh and Gilbert, — all the other names, — 

Are written in the chivalry of God 

As men who served His purpose. I would claim 

A place among that knighthood of the sea; 

And I have earned it, though my quest should fail ! 

For, mark me well, the honour of our life 

Derives from this: to have a certain aim 

Before us always, which our will must seek 

Amid the peril of uncertain ways. 

Then, though we miss the goal, our search is crowned 

With courage, and we find along our path 

A rich reward of unexpected things. 

Press towards the aim: take fortune as it fares! 

I know not why, but something in my heart 
Has always whispered, "Westward seek your goal!" 
Three times they sent me east, but still I turned 
The bowsprit west, and felt among the floes 
Of ruttling ice along the Greenland coast, 
And down the rugged shore of Newfoundland, 
And past the rocky capes and wooded bays 
Where Gosnold sailed, — like one who feels his way 
With outstretched hand across a darkened room, — 
I groped among the inlets and the isles, 
To find the passage to the Land of Spice. 
I have not found it yet, — but I have found 



i 4 8 PRO PATRIA 

Things worth the finding ! 

Son, have you forgot 
Those mellow autumn days, two years ago, 
When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon, — 
The flag of Holland floating at her peak, — 
Across a sandy bar, and sounded in 
Among the channels, to a goodly bay 
Where all the navies of the world could ride ? 
A fertile island that the redmen called 
Manhattan, lay above the bay: the land 
Around was bountiful and friendly fair. 
But never land was fair enough to hold 
The seaman from the calling of the sea. 
And so we bore to westward of the isle, 
Along a mighty inlet, where the tide 
Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood 
That seemed to come from far away, — perhaps 
From some mysterious gulf of Tartary? 
Inland we held our course; by palisades 
Of naked rock ; by rolling hills adorned 
With forests rich in timber for great ships; 
Through narrows where the mountains shut us in 
With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the stream; 
And then through open reaches where the banks 
Sloped to the water gently, with their fields 
Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun. 



HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 149 

Ten days we voyaged through that placid land, 
Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat 
Upstream to find, — what I already knew, — 
We travelled on a river, not a strait. 

But what a river! God has never poured 

A stream more royal through a land more rich. 

Even now I see it flowing in my dream, 

While coming ages people it with men 

Of manhood equal to the river's pride. 

I see the wigwams of the redmen changed 

To ample houses, and the tiny plots 

Of maize and green tobacco broadened out 

To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and dale 

The many-coloured mantle of their crops. 

I see the terraced vineyard on the slope 

Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine 

And cattle feeding where the red deer roam, 

And wild-bees gathered into busy hives 

To store the silver comb with golden sweet; 

And all the promised land begins to flow 

With milk and honey. Stately manors rise 

Along the banks, and castles top the hills, 

And little villages grow populous with trade, 

Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine, — 

The thread that links a hundred towns and towers ! 



150 PRO PATRIA 

Now looking deeper in my dream, I see 

A mighty city covering the isle 

They call Manhattan, equal in her state 

To all the older capitals of earth, — 

The gateway city of a golden world, — 

A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires, 

And swarming with a million busy men, 

While to her open door across the bay 

The ships of all the nations flock like doves. 

My name will be remembered there, the world 

Will say, "This river and this isle were found 

By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek 

The Northwest Passage." 

Yes, I seek it still, — 
My great adventure and my guiding star ! 
For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done; 
We hold by hope as long as life endures! 
Somewhere among these floating fields of ice, 
Somewhere along this westward widening bay, 
Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night, 
The channel opens to the Farthest East, — 
I know it, — and some day a little ship 
Will push her bowsprit in, and battle through ! 
And why not ours, — to-morrow, — who can tell? 
The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart! 
These are the longest days of all the year ; 



HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 151 

The world is round and God is everywhere, 
And while our shallop floats we still can steer. 

So point her up, John King, nor'west by north. 
We'll keep the honour of a certain aim 
Amid the peril of uncertain ways, 
And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God. 
July, 1909. 



152 PRO PATRIA 



SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN 

Children of the elemental mother, 

Born upon some lonely island shore 
Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, 

Where the crested billows plunge and roar; 
Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, 

Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, 
In the far-off solitary places 

I have seen you floating wild and free! 

Here the high-built cities rise around you; 

Here the cliffs that tower east and west, 
Honeycombed with human habitations, 

Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: 
Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; 

Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, 
Restless, up and down the watery highway, 

While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom. 

Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, 
Clank and clamour of the vast machine 

Human hands have built for human bondage — 
Yet amid it all you float serene; 



SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN 153 

Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly 
Down to glean your harvest from the wave; 

In your heritage of air and water, 
You have kept the freedom Nature gave. 

Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan 

Saw your wheeling flocks of white and grey; 
Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, 

Round the Half -Moon creeping up the bay; 
Even so your voices creaked and chattered, 

Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, 
While your black and beady eyes were glistening 

Round the sullen British prison-ships. 

Children of the elemental mother, 

Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, 
From the crowded boats that cross the ferries 

Many a longing heart goes out to you. 
Though the cities climb and close around us, 

Something tells us that our souls are free, 
While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour, 

While the river flows to meet the sea! 
December, 1905. 



154 PRO PATRIA 



A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL 

The roar of the city is low, 

Muffled by new-fallen snow, 
And the sign of the wintry moon is small and round and still. 

Will you come with me to-night, 

To see a pleasant sight 
Away on the river-side, at the edge of Claremont Hill ? 

"And what shall we see there, 
But streets that are new and bare, 

And many a desolate place that the city is coming to fill; 
And a soldier's tomb of stone, 
And a few trees standing alone — 

Will you walk for that through the cold, to the edge of Clare- 
mont Hill?" 

But there's more than that for me, 
In the place that I fain would see: 

There's a glimpse of the grace that helps us all to bear life's ill, — 
A touch of the vital breath 
That keeps the world from death, — 

A flower that never fades, on the edge of Claremont Hill. 



A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL 155 

For just where the road swings round, 

In a narrow strip of ground, 
Where a group of forest trees are lingering fondly still, 

There's a grave of the olden time, 

When the garden bloomed in its prime, 
And the children laughed and sang on the edge of Claremont 
Hill. 

The marble is pure and white, 

And even in this dim light, 
You may read the simple words that are written there if you 
will; 

You may hear a father tell 

Of the child he loved so well, 
A hundred years ago, on the edge of Claremont Hill. 

The tide of the city has rolled 

Across that bower of old, 
And blotted out the beds of the rose and the daffodil; 

But the little pla mate sleeps, 

And the shrine of love still keeps 
A record of happy days, on the edge of Claremont Hill. 

The river is pouring down 
To the crowded, careless town, 
Where the intricate wheels of trade are grinding on like a mill ; 



156 PRO PATRIA 

But the clamorous noise and strife 
Of the hurrying waves of life 
Flow soft by this haven of peace on the edge of Claremont Hill. 

And after all, my friend, 

When the tale of our years shall end, 

Be it long or short, or lowly or great, as God may will, 
What better praise could we hear, 
Than this of the child so dear: 

You have made my life more sweet, on the edge of Claremont 
Hill? 

December, 1896. 



URBS CORONATA 157 



URBS CORONATA 

(Song for the City College of New York) 

O youngest of the giant brood 

Of cities far-renowned; 
In wealth and glory thou hast passed 

Thy rivals at a bound; 
Thou art a mighty queen, New York; 

And how wilt thou be crowned? 

"Weave me no palace- wreath of Pride," 

The royal city said; 
"Nor forge of frowning fortress- walls 

A helmet for my head; 
But let me wear a diadem 

Of Wisdom's towers instead." 

She bowed herself, she spent herself, 
She wrought her will forsooth, 

And set upon her island height 
A citadel of Truth, 

A house of Light, a home of Thought, 
A shrine of noble Youth. 



158 PRO PATRIA 

Stand here, ye City College towers, 
And look both up and down; 

Remember all who wrought for you 
Within the toiling town; 

Remember all their hopes for you, 
And be the City's Crown. 

June, 1908. 



MERCY FOR ARMENIA 159 



MERCY FOR ARMENIA 

I 

THE TURK'S WAY 

Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand 
Far off, for I will save my troubled folk 
In my own way. So the false Sultan spoke; 

And Europe, hearkening to his base command, 

Stood still to see him heal his wounded land. 
Through blinding snows of winter and through smoke 
Of burning towns, she saw him deal the stroke 

Of cruel mercy that his hate had planned. 

Unto the prisoners and the sick he gave 
New tortures, horrible, without a name; 

Unto the thirsty, blood to drink; a sword 
Unto the hungry; with a robe of shame 
He clad the naked, making life abhorred; 

He saved by slaughter, and denied a grave. 



160 PRO PATRIA 

II 

AMERICA'S WAY 

But thou, my country, though no fault be thine 

For that red horror far across the sea; 

Though not a tortured wretch can point to thee, 
And curse thee for the selfishness supine 
Of those great Powers that cowardly combine 

To shield the Turk in his iniquity; 

Yet, since thy hand is innocent and free, 
Arise, and show the world the way divine! 
Thou canst not break the oppressor's iron rod, 

But thou canst help and comfort the oppressed; 
Thou canst not loose the captive's heavy chain, 
But thou canst bind his wounds and soothe his pain. 

Armenia calls thee, Sovereign of the West, 
To play the Good Samaritan for God. 
1896. 



SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908 161 



SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908 

O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, 
Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays, 
Whose light infolds thy hills with golden rays, 

Filling with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree, 

What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee, 
That once again, in these dark, dreadful days, 
Breaks forth in trembling rage, and swiftly lays 

Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony! 

Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers, 
And man the plaything of unconscious fate? 
Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above, 

And man is greatest in his darkest hours. 
Walking amid the cities desolate, 

Behold the Son of God in human love! 

Tertius and Henry van Dyke. 



i6 2 PRO PATRIA 



JEANNE D'ARC 

The land was broken in despair, 

The princes quarrelled in the dark, 
When clear and tranquil, through the troubled air 
Of selfish minds and wills that did not dare, 
Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc. 

O virgin breast with lilies white, 

O sun-burned hand that bore the lance, 
You taught the prayer that helps men to unite, 
You brought the courage equal to the fight, 
You gave a heart to France! 

Your king was crowned, your country free, 

At Rheims you had your soul's desire: 
And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy, 
The black-robed judges gave your victory 
The martyr's crown of fire. 

And now again the times are ill, 

And doubtful leaders miss the mark; 
The people lack the single faith and will 
To make them one, — your country needs you still,- 
Come back again, Jeanne d'Arc! 



JEANNE D'ARC 163 

O woman-star, arise once more 

And shine to bid your land advance: 
The old heroic trust in God restore, 
Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore, 

And give a heart to France! 
Paris, July, 1909. 



i6 4 PRO PATRIA 



NATIONAL MONUMENTS 

Count not the cost of honour to the dead! 
The tribute that a mighty nation pays 
To those who loved her well in former days 

Means more than gratitude for glories fled; 

For every noble man that she hath bred, 
Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise, 
Immortalised by art's immortal praise, 

To lead our sons as he our fathers led. 

These monuments of manhood strong and high 
Do more than forts or battle-ships to keep 

Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify 
The heart of youth with valour wise and deep; 

They build eternal bulwarks, and command 

Immortal hosts to guard our native land. 

February, 1905. 



THE MONUMENT OF FRANCIS MAKEMIE 165 



THE MONUMENT OF FRANCIS MAKEMIE 

(Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708) 

To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, 

We bring the meed of praise too long delayed! 
Thy fearless word and faithful work have made 

For God's Republic firmer resting-place 

In this New World: for thou hast preached the grace 
And power of Christ in many a forest glade, 
Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid 

Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face. 

Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee, 
Makemie, and to labour such as thine, 
For all that makes America the shrine 

Of faith untrammelled and of conscience free ? 

Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sod 

Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God! 

April, 1908. 



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THE STATUE OF SHERMAN BY ST. GAUDENS 

This is the soldier brave enough to tell 
The glory-dazzled world that 'war is hell': 
Lover of peace, he looks beyond the strife, 
And rides through hell to save his country's life. 
April, 1904. 



'•'AMERICA FOR ME" 167 



" AMERICA FOR ME" 

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down 
Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, 
To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings, — 
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. 

So it's home again, and home again, America for me! 
My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, 
In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, 
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. 

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; 
And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; 
And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; 
But when it comes to living there is no place like home. 

I like the German fir- woods, in green battalions drilled; 
I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled; 
But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day 
In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way! 

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack: 
The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back. 



168 PRO PATRIA 

But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free, — 
We love our land for what she is and what she is to be. 

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! 
I want a ship thafs westward bound to plough the rolling sea, 
To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, 
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars 
June, 1909. 



THE BUILDERS 169 



THE BUILDERS 

ODE FOR THE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY 
OF PRINCETON COLLEGE 
October 21, 1896 
I 
Into the dust of the making of man 
Spirit was breathed when his life began, 
Lifting him up from his low estate, 
With masterful passion, the wish to create. 
Out of the dust of his making, man 
Fashioned his works as the ages ran; 
Fortress, and palace, and temple, and tower, 
Filling the world with the proof of his power. 
Over the dust that awaits him, man, 
Building the walls that his pride doth plan, 
Dreams they will stand in the light of the sun 
Bearing his name till Time is done. 

II 

The monuments of mortals 

Are as the glory of the grass; 
Through Time's dim portals 

A voiceless, viewless wind doth pass, 
The blossoms fall before it in a day, 



170 PRO P ATRIA 

The forest monarchs year by year decay, 
And man's great buildings slowly fade away. 
One after one, 
They pay to that dumb breath 
The tribute of their death, 

And are undone. 
The towers incline to dust, 
The massive girders rust, 
The domes dissolve in air, 
The pillars that upbear 
The lofty arches crumble, stone by stone, 
While man the builder looks about him in despair, 
For all his works of pride and power are overthrown. 



Ill 

A Voice came from the sky: 
"Set thy desires more high. 
Thy buildings fade away 
Because thou buildest clay. 
Now make the fabric sure 
With stones that will endure! 
Hewn from the spiritual rock, 

The immortal towers of the soul 
At Death's dissolving touch shall mock, 

And stand secure while aeons roll." 



THE BUILDERS 171 



IV 



Well did the wise in heart rejoice 
To hear the summons of that Voice, 

And patiently begin 

The builder's work within, — 

Houses not made with hands, 

Nor founded on the sands. 
And thou, Revered Mother, at whose call 
We come to keep thy joyous festival, 
And celebrate thy labours on the walls of Truth 
Through sevenscore years and ten of thine eternal youth- 

A master builder thou, 

And on thy shining brow, 
Like Cybele, in fadeless light dost wear 
A diadem of turrets strong and fair. 



I see thee standing in a lonely land, 
But late and hardly won from solitude, 

Unpopulous and rude, — 
On that far western shore I see thee stand, 
Like some young goddess from a brighter strand, 
While in thine eyes a radiant thought is born, 
Enkindling all thy beauty like the morn. 



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Sea-like the forest rolled, in waves of green, 

And few the lights that glimmered, leagues between. 

High in the north, for fourscore years alone 

Fair Harvard's earliest beacon-tower had shone 

When Yale was lighted, and an answering ray 

Flashed from the meadows by New Haven Bay. 

But deeper spread the forest, and more dark, 

Where first Neshaminy received the spark 

Of sacred learning to a woodland camp, 

And Old Log College glowed with Tennant's lamp. 

Thine, Alma Mater, was the larger sight, 

That saw the future of that trembling light, 

And thine the courage, thine the stronger will, 

That built its loftier home on Princeton Hill. 

"New light!" men cried, and murmured that it came 
From an unsanctioned source with lawless flame; 
It shone too free, for still the church and school 
Must only shine according to their rule. 
But Princeton answered, in her nobler mood, 
"God made the light, and all the light is good. 
There is no war between the old and new; 
The conflict lies between the false and true. 
The stars, that high in heaven their courses run, 
In glory differ, but their light is one. 
The beacons, gleaming o'er the sea of life, 



THE BUILDERS 173 

Are rivals but in radiance, not in strife. 
Shine on, ye sister- towers, across the night! 
I too will build a lasting house of light." 



VI 

Brave was that word of faith and bravely was it kept; 
With never-wearying zeal that faltered not, nor slept, 
Our Alma Mater toiled, and while she firmly laid 
The deep foundation-walls, at all her toil she prayed. 
And men who loved the truth because it made them free, 
And clearly saw the twofold Word of God agree, 
Reading from Nature's book and from the Bible's page 
By the same inward ray that grows from age to age, 
Were built like living stones that beacon to uplift, 
And drawing light from heaven gave to the world the gift. 
Nor ever, while they searched the secrets of the earth, 
Or traced the stream of life through mystery to its birth, 
Nor ever, while they taught the lightning- flash to bear 
The messages of man in silence through the air, 
Fell from their home of light one false, perfidious ray 
To blind the trusting heart, or lead the life astray. 
But still, while knowledge grew more luminous and broad 
It lit the path of faith and showed the way to God. 



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VII 
Yet not for peace alone 

Labour the builders. 
Work that in peace has grown 
Swiftly is overthrown, 
When in the darkening skies 
Storm-clouds of wrath arise, 
And through the cannon's crash, 
War's deadly lightning-flash 

Smites and bewilders. 
Ramparts of strength must frown 
Round every placid town 

And city splendid; 
All that our fathers wrought 
With true prophetic thought, 

Must be defended! 

VIII 
But who could raise protecting walls for thee, 
Thou young, defenceless land of liberty? 
Or who could build a fortress strong enough, 
Or stretch a mighty bulwark long enough 
To hold thy far-extended coast 
Against the overweening host 
That took the open path across the sea, 



THE BUILDERS 175 

And like a tempest poured 
Their desolating horde, 
To quench thy dawning light in gloom of tyranny ? 

Yet not unguarded thou wert found 

When on thy shore with sullen sound 

The blaring trumpets of an unjust king 

Proclaimed invasion. From the ground, 

In freedom's darkest hour, there seemed to spring 

Unconquerable walls for her defence; 

Not trembling, like those battlements of stone 

That fell when Joshua's horns were blown; 

But standing firm the living rampart rose, 

To meet the onset of imperious foes 
With a long line of brave, unyielding men. 

This was thy fortress, well-defended land, 

And on these walls, the patient, building hand 

Of Princeton laboured with the force of ten. 

Her sons were foremost in the furious fight; 

Her sons were firmest to uphold the right 

In council-chambers of the new-born State, 
And prove that he who would be free must first be great 

In heart, and high in thought, and strong 

In purpose not to do or suffer wrong. 

Such were the men, impregnable to fear, 

Whose souls were framed and fashioned here; 
And when war shook the land with threatening shock, 



176 PRO PATRIA 

The men of Princeton stood like muniments of rock. 

Nor has the breath of Time 

Dissolved that proud array 

Of never-broken strength: 

For though the rocks decay, 

And all the iron bands 
Of earthly strongholds are unloosed at length, 
And buried deep in gray oblivion's sands; 

The work that heroes' hands 
Wrought in the light of freedom's natal day 

Shall never fade away, 

But lifts itself, sublime 

Into a lucid sphere, 

For ever calm and clear, 
Preserving in the memory of the fathers' deed, 
A never-failing fortress for their children's need. 
There we confirm our hearts to-day, and read 
On many a stone the signature of fame, 
The builder's mark, our Alma Mater's name. 

IX 

Bear with us then a moment, while we turn 
From all the present splendours of this place — 
The lofty towers that like a dream have grown 
Where once old Nassau Hall stood all alone — 
Back to that ancient time, with hearts that burn 



THE BUILDERS 177 

In filial gratitude, to trace 
The glory of our mother's best degree, 

In that "high son of Liberty," 

Who like a granite block, 

Riven from Scotland's rock, 
Stood loyal here to keep Columbia free. 
Born far away beyond the ocean's tide, 
He found his fatherland upon this side; 
And every drop of ardent blood that ran 
Through his great heart, was true American. 
He held no fealty to a distant throne, 
But made his new-found country's cause his own. 

In peril and distress, 

In toil and weariness, 

When darkness overcast her 

With shadows of disaster, 

And voices of confusion 

Proclaimed her hope delusion, 

Robed in his preacher's gown, 

He dared the danger down; 
Like some old prophet chanting an inspired rune 
In freedom's councils rang the voice of Witherspoon. 

And thou, my country, write it on thy heart, 
Thy sons are they who nobly take thy part; 
Who dedicates his manhood at thy shrine, 



178 PRO PATRIA 

Wherever born, is born a son of thine. 
Foreign in name, but not in soul, they come 
To find in thee their long-desired home; 
Lovers of liberty and haters of disorder, 
They shall be built in strength along thy border. 

Dream not thy future foes 
Will all be foreign-born! 
Turn thy clear look of scorn 
Upon thy children who oppose 
Their passions wild and policies of shame 
To wreck the righteous splendour of thy name. 

Untaught and overconfident they rise, 
With folly on their lips, and envy in their eyes: 
Strong to destroy, but powerless to create, 
And ignorant of all that made our fathers great, 
Their hands would take away thy golden crown, 
And shake the pillars of thy freedom down 
In Anarchy's ocean, dark and desolate. 
O should that storm descend, 
What fortress shall defend 
The land our fathers wrought for, 
The liberties they fought for? 
What bulwark shall secure 
Her shrines of law, and keep her founts of justice pure ? 
Then, ah then, 



THE BUILDERS 179 

As in the olden days, 

The builders must upraise 

A rampart of indomitable men. 
And once again, 
Dear Mother, if thy heart and hand be true, 
There will be building work for thee to do ; 

Yea, more than once again, 

Thou shalt win lasting praise, 
And never-dying honour shall be thine, 
For setting many stones in that illustrious line, 
To stand unshaken in the swirling strife, 
And guard their country's honour as her life. 



X 

Softly, my harp, and let me lay the touch 
Of silence on these rudely clanging strings; 

For he who sings 
Even of noble conflicts overmuch, 
Loses the inward sense of better things; 

And he who makes a boast 
Of knowledge, darkens that which counts the most,- 

The insight of a wise humility 
That reverently adores what none can see. 

The glory of our life below 
Comes not from what we do, or what we know, 



180 PRO PATRIA 

But dwells forevermore in what we are. 

There is an architecture grander far 
Than all the fortresses 'of war, 
More inextinguishably bright 

Than learning's lonely towers of light. 

Framing its walls of faith and hope and love 
In souls of men, it lifts above 
The frailty of our earthly home 
An everlasting dome; 

The sanctuary of the human host, 

The living temple of the Holy Ghost. 



XI 

If music led the builders long ago, 

When Arthur planned the halls of Camelot, 
And made the royal city grow, 

Fair as a flower in that forsaken spot; 
What sweeter music shall we bring, 
To weave a harmony divine 

Of prayer and holy thought 
Into the labours of this loftier shrine, 

This consecrated hill, 
Where through so many a year 
Our Alma Mater's hand hath wrought, 
With toil serene and still, 



THE BUILDERS 181 

And heavenly hope, to rear 
Eternal dwellings for the Only King ? 
Here let no martial trumpets blow, 
Nor instruments of pride proclaim 
The loud exultant notes of fame! 
But let the chords be clear and low, 
And let the anthem deeper grow, 
And let it move more solemnly and slow; 
For only such an ode 
Can seal the harmony 
Of that deep masonry 
Wherein the soul of man is framed for God's abode. 

XII 

O Thou whose boundless love bestows 
The joy of earth, the hope of Heaven, 

And whose unchartered mercy flows 
O'er all the blessings Thou hast given; 

Thou by whose light alone we see; 

And by whose truth our souls set free 

Are made imperishably strong; 

Hear Thou the solemn music of our song. 

O grant the knowledge that we need 
To solve the questions of the mind, 
And light our candle while we read, 



i82 PRO PATRIA 

To keep our hearts from going blind; 
Enlarge our vision to behold 
The wonders Thou hast wrought of old; 
Reveal thyself in every law, 
And gild the towers of truth with holy awe. 

Be Thou our strength if war's wild gust 
Shall rage around us, loud and fierce; 
Confirm our souls and let our trust 

Be like a shield that none can pierce; 
Renew the courage that prevails, 
The steady faith that never fails, 
And make us stand in every fight 
Firm as a fortress to defend the right. 

O God, control us as Thou wilt, 

And guide the labour of our hand; 
Let all our work be surely built 

As Thou, the architect, hast planned; 
But whatso'er thy power shall make 
Of these frail lives, do not forsake 
Thy dwelling: let thy presence rest 
For ever in the temple of our breast. 



SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 183 



SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 

ODE FOR THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF 
LAWRENCEVILLE SCHOOL 
June ii, 19 10 



The British bard who looked on Eton's walls, 
Endeared by distance in the pearly gray 
And soft aerial blue that ever falls 
On English landscape with the dying day, 
Beheld in thought his boyhood far away, 
Its random raptures and its festivals 

Of noisy mirth, 
The brief illusion of its idle joys, 
And mourned that none of these can stay 
With men, whom life inexorably calls 
To face the grim realities of earth. 
His pensive fancy pictured there at play 
From year to year the careless bands of boys, 
Unconscious victims kept in golden state, 

While haply they await 
The dark approach of disenchanting Fate, 

To hale them to the sacrifice 



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Of Pain and Penury and Grief and Care, 
Slow-withering Age, or Failure's swift despair. 
Half-pity and half -envy dimmed the eyes 
Of that old poet, gazing on the scene 
Where long ago his youth had flowed serene, 
And all the burden of his ode was this: 
"Where ignorance is bliss, 
'Tis folly to be wise." 

II 

But not for us, O plaintive elegist, 

Thine epicedial tone of sad farewell 

To joy in wisdom and to thought in youth ! 

Our western Muse would keep her tryst 

With sunrise, not with sunset, and foretell 

In boyhood's bliss the dawn of manhood's truth. 

Ill 

O spirit of the everlasting boy, 

Alert, elate, 
And confident that life is good, 
Thou knockest boldly at the gate, 

In hopeful hardihood, 
Eager to enter and enjoy 

Thy new estate. 



SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 185 

Through the old house thou runnest everywhere, 
Bringing a breath of folly and fresh air. 
Ready to make a treasure of each toy, 
Or break them all in discontented mood; 

Fearless of Fate, 
Yet strangely fearful of a comrade's laugh ; 
Reckless and timid, hard and sensitive; 
In talk a rebel, full of mocking chaff, 

At heart devout conservative; 
In love with love, yet hating to be kissed; 
Inveterate optimist, 
And judge severe, 
In reason cloudy but in feeling clear; 
Keen critic, ardent hero-worshipper, 
Impatient of restraint in little ways, 

Yet ever ready to confer 
On chosen leaders boundless power and praise; 
Adventurous spirit burning to explore 
Untrodden paths where hidden danger lies, 
And homesick heart looking with wistful eyes 
Through every twilight to a mother's door; 
Thou daring, darling, inconsistent boy, 

How dull the world would be 
Without thy presence, dear barbarian, 
And happy lord of high futurity! 
Be what thou art, our trouble and our joy, 



186 PRO PATRIA 

Our hardest problem and our brightest hope! 
And while thine elders lead thee up the slope 
Of knowledge, let them learn from teaching thee 
That vital joy is part of nature's plan, 
And he who keeps the spirit of the boy 
Shall gladly grow to be a happy man. 



IV 

What constitutes a school? 
Not ancient halls and ivy-mantled towers, 

Where dull traditions rule 
With heavy hand youth's lightly springing powers; 

Not spacious pleasure courts, 
And lofty temples of athletic fame, 

Where devotees of sports 
Mistake a pastime for life's highest aim; 

Not fashion, nor renown 
Of wealthy patronage and rich estate; 

No, none of these can crown 
A school with light and make it truly great. 

But masters, strong and wise, 
Who teach because they love the teacher's task, 

And find their richest prize 
In eyes that open and in minds that ask; 

And boys, with heart aglow 



SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 187 

To try their youthful vigour on their work, 

Eager to learn and grow, 
And quick to hate a coward or a shirk: 

These constitute a school, — 
A vital forge of weapons keen and bright, 

Where living sword and tool 
Are tempered for true toil or noble fight! 

But let not wisdom scorn 
The hours of pleasure in the playing fields: 

There also strength is born, 
And every manly game a virtue yields. 

Fairness and self-control, 
Good-humour, pluck, and patience in the race, 

Will make a lad heart-whole 
To win with honour, lose without disgrace. 

Ah, well for him who gains 
In such a school apprenticeship to life: 

With him the joy of youth remains 
In later lessons and in larger strife! 



On Jersey's rolling plain, where Washington, 

In midnight marching at the head 

Of ragged regiments, his army led 

To Princeton's victory of the rising sun; 



188 PRO PATRIA 

Here in this liberal land, by battle won 

For Freedom and the rule 
Of equal rights for every child of man, 

Arose a democratic school, 
To train a virile race of sons to bear 
With thoughtful joy the name American, 
And serve the God who heard their father's prayer. 
No cloister, dreaming in a world remote 
From that real world wherein alone we live; 
No mimic court, where titled names denote 
A dignity that only worth can give; 
But here a friendly house of learning stood, 
With open door beside the broad highway, 
And welcomed lads to study and to play 
In generous rivalry of brotherhood. 
A hundred years have passed, and Lawrenceville, 
In beauty and in strength renewed, 
Stands with her open portal still, 
And neither time nor fortune brings 
To her deep spirit any change of mood, 
Or faltering from the faith she held of old. 
Still to the democratic creed she clings: 
That manhood needs nor rank nor gold 
To make it noble in our eyes; 
That every boy is born with royal right, 
From blissful ignorance to rise 



SPIRIT OF THE EVERLASTING BOY 

To joy more lasting and more bright, 

In mastery of body and of mind, 

King of himself and servant of mankind. 

VI 
Old Lawrenceville, 
Thy happy bell 
Shall ring to-day, 
O'er vale and hill, 
O'er mead and dell, 
While far away, 
With silent thrill, 
The echoes roll 
Through many a soul, 
That knew thee well, 
In boyhood's day, 
And loves thee still. 

Ah, who can tell 
How far away, 
Some sentinel 
Of God's good will, 
In forest cool, 
Or desert gray, 
By lonely pool, 
Or barren hill, 



iqo PRO PATRIA 

Shall faintly hear, 
With inward ear, 
The chiming bell, 
Of his old school, 

Through darkness pealing; 

And lowly kneeling, 
Shall feel the spell 
Of grateful tears 
His eyelids fill; 
And softly pray 
To Him who hears: 

God bless old Lawrenceville! 



WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 191 



WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 

PHI BETA KAPPA ODE 

Harvard University 
June 30, 19 10 



All day long in the city's canyon- street, 
With its populous cliffs alive on either side, 
I saw a river of marching men like a tide 
Flowing after the flag: and the rhythmic beat 

Of the drums, and the bugles' resonant blare 
Metred the tramp, tramp, tramp of a myriad feet, 
While the red-white-and-blue was fluttering everywhere, 
And the heart of the crowd kept time to a martial air: 

O brave flag, O bright flag, O flag to lead the free I 

The glory of thy silver stars, 

Engrailed in blue above the bars 

Of red for courage, white for truth, 

Has brought the world a second youth 
And drawn a hundred million hearts to follow after thee. 



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II 



Old Cambridge saw thee first unfurled, 
By Washington's far-reaching hand, 
To greet, in Seventy-six, the wintry morn 
Of a new year, and herald to the world 
Glad tidings from a Western land, — 
A people and a hope new-born ! 
The double cross then filled thine azure field, 
In token of a spirit loath to yield 
The breaking ties that bound thee to a throne. 
But not for long thine orinamme could bear 
That symbol of an outworn trust in kings. 
The wind that bore thee out on widening wings 
Called for a greater sign and all thine own, — 
A new device to speak of heavenly laws 
And lights that surely guide the people's cause. 
Oh, greatly did they hope, and greatly dare, 
Who bade the stars in heaven fight for them, 
And set upon their battle-flag a fair 
New constellation as a diadem! 
Along the blood-stained banks of Brandywine 
The ragged regiments were rallied to this sign; 
Through Saratoga's woods it fluttered bright 
Amid the perils of the hard-won fight; 
O'er Yorktown's meadows broad and green 



WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 193 

It hailed the glory of the final scene; 

And when at length Manhattan saw 

The last invaders' line of scarlet coats 

Pass Bowling Green, and fill the waiting boats 

And sullenly withdraw, 

The flag that proudly flew 
Above the battered line of buff and blue, 
Marching, with rattling drums and shrilling pipes, 
Along the Bowery and down Broadway, 
Was this that leads the great parade to-day, — 
The glorious banner of the stars and stripes. 

First of the flags of earth to dare 

A heraldry so high; 
First of the flags of earth to bear 

The blazons of the sky; 
Long may thy constellation glow, 

Foretelling happy fate; 
Wider thy starry circle grow, 

And every star a State! 



Ill 



Pass on, pass on, ye flashing files 
Of men who march in militant array; 
Ye thrilling bugles, throbbing drums, 
Ring out, roll on, and die away; 



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And fade, ye crowds, with the fading day! 
Around the city's lofty piles 
Of steel and stone 
The lilac veil of dusk is thrown, 
Entangled full of sparks of fairy light; 
And the never-silent heart of the city hums 
To a homeward-turning tune before the night. 
But far above, on the sky-line's broken height, 
From all the towers and domes outlined 
In gray and gold along the city's crest, 
I see the rippling flag still take the wind 
With a promise of good to come for all mankind. 



IV 

O banner of the west, 

No proud and brief parade, 

That glorifies a nation's holiday 

With show of troops for warfare dressed, 
Can rightly measure or display 
The mighty army thou hast made 

Loyal to guard thy more than royal sway. 
Millions have come across the sea 
To find beneath thy shelter room to grow; 

Millions were born beneath thy folds and know 
No other flag but thee; 



WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 195 

And other, darker millions bore the yoke 
Of bondage in thy borders till the voice 

Of Lincoln spoke, 
And sent thee forth to set the bondmen free. 

Rejoice, dear flag, rejoice! 
Since thou hast proved and passed that bitter strife, 
Richer thy red with blood of heroes wet, 
Purer thy white through sacrificial life, 
Brighter thy blue wherein new stars are set. 

Thou art become a sign, 
Revealed in heaven to speak of things divine: 

Of Truth that dares 

To slay the lie it sheltered unawares; 

Of Courage fearless in the fight, 
Yet ever quick its foemen to forgive; 
Of Conscience earnest to maintain its right 
And gladly grant the same to all who live. 

Thy staff is deeply planted in the fact 

That nothing can ennoble man 

Save his own act, 
And naught can make him worthy to be free 
But practice in the school of liberty. 
The cords are two that lift thee to the sky: 
Firm faith in God, the King who rules on high; 

And never-failing trust 
In human nature, full of faults and flaws, 



196 PRO PATRIA 

Yet ever answering to the inward call 

That bids it set the "ought" above the "must," 

In all its errors wiser than it seems, 

In all its failures full of generous dreams, 

Through endless conflict rising without pause 

To self-dominion, charactered in laws 

That pledge fair-play alike to great and small, 

And equal rights for each beneath the rule of all. 

These are thy halyards, banner bold, 

And while these hold, 
Thy brightness from the sky shall never fall, 
Thy broadening empire never know decrease, — 
Thy strength is union and thy glory peace. 



Look forth across thy widespread lands, 
O flag, and let thy stars to-night be eyes 

To see the visionary hosts 
Of men and women grateful to be thine, 

That joyfully arise 
From all thy borders and thy coasts, 
And follow after thee in endless line! 
They lift to thee a forest of saluting hands; 
They hail thee with a rolling ocean-roar 

Of cheers; and as the echo dies, 



WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 197 

There comes a sweet and moving song 
Of treble voices from the childish throng 
Who run to thee from every school-house door. 
Behold thine army! Here thy power lies: 
The men whom freedom has made strong, 
And bound to follow thee by willing vows; 

The women greatened by the joys 
Of motherhood to rule a happy house; 

The vigorous girls and boys, 
Whose eager faces and unclouded brows 
Foretell the future of a noble race, 
Rich in the wealth of wisdom and true worth ! 
While millions such as these to thee belong, 

What foe can do thee wrong, 
What jealous rival rob thee of thy place 

Foremost of all the flags of earth ? 



VI 

My vision darkens as the night descends; 

And through the mystic atmosphere 

I feel the creeping coldness that portends 
A change of spirit in my dream 

The multitude that moved with song and cheer 
Have vanished, yet a living stream 
Flows on and follows still the flag, 



198 PRO PATRIA 

But silent now, with leaden feet that lag 

And falter in the deepening gloom., — 
A weird battalion bringing up the rear. 
Ah, who are these on whom the vital bloom 
Of life has withered to the dust of doom ? 
These little pilgrims prematurely worn 
And bent as if they bore the weight of years ? 
These childish faces, pallid and forlorn, 
Too dull for laughter and too hard for tears? 
Is this the ghost of that insane crusade 
That led ten thousand children long ago, 
A flock of innocents, deceived, betrayed, 
Yet pressing on through want and woe 
To meet their fate, faithful and unafraid ? 

Nay, for a million children now 
Are marching in the long pathetic line, 
With weary step and early wrinkled brow; 
And at their head appears no holy sign 

Of hope in heaven; 

For unto them is given 
No cross to carry, but a cross to drag. 
Before their strength is ripe they bear 
The load of labour, toiling underground 
In dangerous mines and breathing heavy air 
Of crowded shops; their tender lives are bound 
To service of the whirling, clatttering wheels 



WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 199 

That fill the factories with dust and noise; 

They are not girls and boys, 
But little "hands" who blindly, dumbly feed 
With their own blood the hungry god of Greed. 

Robbed of their natural joys, 
And wounded with a scar that never heals, 
They stumble on with heavy-laden soul, 
And fall by thousands on the highway lined 
With little graves, or reach at last their goal 
Of stunted manhood and embittered age, 
To brood awhile with dark and troubled mind, 
Beside the smouldering fire of sullen rage, 
On life's unfruitful work and niggard wage. 
Are these the regiments that Freedom rears 

To serve her cause in coming years? 
Nay, every life that Avarice doth maim 
And beggar in the helpless days of youth, 

Shall surely claim 
A just revenge, and take it without ruth; 
And every soul denied the right to grow 
Beneath the flag, shall be its secret foe. 
Bow down, dear land, in penitence and shame! 
Remember now thine oath, so nobly sworn, 

To guard an equal lot 
For every child within thy borders born ! 
These are thy children whom thou hast forgot: 



200 PRO PATRIA 

They have the bitter right to live, but not 
The blessed right to look for happiness. 
O lift thy liberating hand once more, 
To loose thy little ones from dark duress; 
The vital gladness to their hearts restore 
In healthful lessons and in happy play; 
And set them free to climb the upward way 
That leads to self-reliant nobleness. 
Speak out, my country, speak at last, 

As thou hast spoken in the past, 

And clearly, bravely say: 

"I. will defend 
"The coming race on whom my hopes depend: 
"Beneath my flag and on my sacred soil 
"No child shall bear the crushing yoke of toil." 



VII 

Look up, look up, ye downcast eyes! 

The night is almost gone: 
Along the new horizon flies 

The banner of the dawn; 
The eastern sky is banded low 

With white and crimson bars, 
While far above the morning glow 

The everlasting stars. 



WHO FOLLOW THE FLAG 201 

O bright flag, O brave flag, O flag to lead the f reel 

The hand of God thy colours blent, 

And heaven to earth thy glory lent, 

To shield the weak, and guide the strong 

To make an end of human wrong, 
And draw a countless human host to follow after thee I 



IN PRAISE OF POETS 



MOTHER EARTH 

Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed, 
Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory 

of the field, 
Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, 

impassive, 
Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows! 
Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy 

breast, 
Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voiceless, 
All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearning, 
Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning. 

Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these 

measures, 
Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, irresistibly 
Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, down 
Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in the sand. 
But the souls of the singers have entered into the songs that 

revealed them, — 
Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief and love and 

longing, 

205 



206 IN PRAISE OF POETS 

Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they echo above 

thee: 
Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those that love thee? 

Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old 

enchantment 
Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless, 
Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and 

Lover 
Wakened the man-child within thee to tell thy secret. 
All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing waters 
Are but the rhythmical forms to reveal the life of the spirit; 
Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and 

ocean, 
Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion. 
December, 1905. 



MILTON 207 



MILTON 



Lover of beauty, walking on the height 

Of pure philosophy and tranquil song; 

Born to behold the visions that belong 
To those who dwell in melody and light; 
Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright! 

What drew thee down to join the Roundhead 
throng 

Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong, 
Fighting for freedom in a world half night ? 

Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou, 
Above all beauty bright, all music clear: 

To thee she bared her bosom and her brow, 
Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear, 

And bound thee to her with a double vow, — 
Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier! 



2o8 IN PRAISE OF POETS 



II 

The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned 
Her singing robes to battle on the plain, 
Was won, O poet, and was lost again; 

And lost the labour of thy lonely mind 

On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find 
To comfort thee for all the toil and pain? 
What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain 

And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind? 

Like organ-music comes the deep reply: 

"The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be won. 

For God hath given to mine inward eye 
Vision of England soaring to the sun. 

And granted me great peace before I die, 
In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done." 



Ill 

O bend again above thine organ-board, 
Thou blind old poet longing for repose! 
Thy Master claims thy service not with those 

Who only stand and wait for His reward; 

He pours the heavenly gift of song restored 
Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close 



MILTON 209 

A noble life, with poetry that flows 
In mighty music of the major chord. 

Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic strain, 

Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace, 
To sing of Paradise ? Ah, not in vain 

The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place, 
And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain, 

The loftiest poet of the Saxon race! 
1908. 



2io IN PRAISE OF POETS 



WORDSWORTH 

Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls 
Among the mountains, and thy song is fed 
By living springs far up the watershed; 

No whirling flood nor parching drought controls 

The crystal current: even on the shoals 

It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed 
Deepens below mysterious cliffs of dread, 

Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls. 

But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress 
Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground 
Beneath black thoughts that wither and destroy. 
Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness 

Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found 
The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy. 
October, 1906. 



KEATS 211 



KEATS 

The melancholy gift Aurora gained 

From Jove, that her sad lover should not see 
The face of death, no goddess asked for thee, 

My Keats! But when the scarlet blood-drop stained 

Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained, — 
Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy! 
And then, — a shadow fell on Italy: 

Thy star went down before its brightness waned. 

Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed: 
Never to feel the pain of growing old, 
Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth, 
But with the ardent lips Urania kissed 
To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew cold, 
Become the Poet of Immortal Youth. 
August, 1906. 



2i2 IN PRAISE OF POETS 



SHELLEY 

Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest, 

And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire; 

For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre 
To some unearthly music, and possessed 
With painful passionate longing to invest 

The golden dream of Love's immortal fire 

With mortal robes of beautiful attire, 
And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast! 

What wonder, Shelley, that the restless wave 
Should claim thee and the leaping flame consume 
Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach ? 
These were thine elements, — thy fitting grave. 
But still thy soul rides on with fiery plume, 
Thy wild song rings in ocean's yearning speech! 
August, 1906. 



ROBERT BROWNING 213 



ROBERT BROWNING 

How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, 
In winding graveyard pathways underground, 
For Browning's lineage! What if men have found 

Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll 

Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? 
Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned 
Through all the world, — the poets laurel-crowned 

With wreaths from which the autumn takes no toll. 

The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: 
The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire, 
The golden globe of Shakespeare's human stage, 
The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, 
The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, 
The tragic mask of wise Euripides. 
November, 1906. 



2i4 IN PRAISE OF POETS 



TENNYSON 

In Lucem Transitus, October, 1892 

From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours 

of the moon, 
To the singing tides of heaven, and the light more clear than 

noon, 
Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in tune. 

Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art; 
Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart; 
Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou 
depart? 

Silence here — for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail ; 
Silence here — for grief is voiceless when the mighty minstrels 

fail; 
Silence here — but far beyond us, many voices crying, Hail! 



"IN MEMORIAM" 21$ 



"IN MEMORIAM" 

The record of a faith sublime, 

And hope, through clouds, far-off discerned; 

The incense of a love that burned 
Through pain and doubt defying Time: 

The story of a soul at strife 
That learned at last to kiss the rod, 
And passed through sorrow up to God, 

From living to a higher life: 

A light. that gleams across the wave 
Of darkness, down the rolling years, 
Piercing the heavy mist of tears— 

A rainbow shining o'er a grave. 



216 IN PRAISE OF POETS 



VICTOR HUGO 

1802-1902 

Heart of France for a hundred years, 

Passionate, sensitive, proud, and strong, 
Quick to throb with her hopes and fears, 
Fierce to flame with her sense of wrong! 
You, who hailed with a morning song 
Dream-light gilding a throne of old: 
You, who turned when the dream grew cold, 
Singing still, to the light that shone 
Pure from Liberty's ancient throne, 

Over the human throng! 
You, who dared in the dark eclipse, — 
When the pygmy heir of a giant name 
Dimmed the face of the land with shame, — 
Speak the truth with indignant lips, 
Call him little whom men called great, 
Scoff at him, scorn him, deny him, 
Point to the blood on his robe of state, 
Fling back his bribes and defy him! 

You, who fronted the waves of fate 
As you faced the sea from your island home, 



VICTOR HUGO 217 

Exiled, yet with a soul elate, 

Sending songs o'er the rolling foam, 
Bidding the heart of man to wait 
For the day when all should see 

Floods of wrath from the frowning skies 

Fall on an Empire founded in lies, 
And France again be free! 
You, who came in the Terrible Year 

Swiftly back to your broken land, 
Now to your heart a thousand times more dear, — 

Prayed for her, sung to her, fought for her, 

Patiently, fervently wrought for her, 
Till once again, 

After the storm of fear and pain, 
High in the heavens the star of France stood clear! 

You, who knew that a man must take 
Good and ill with a steadfast soul — 
Holding fast, while the billows roll 

Over his head, to the things that make 
Life worth living for great and small, — 
Honour and pity and truth, 
The heart and the hope of youth, 
And the good God over all ! 

You, to whom work was rest, 
Dauntless Toiler of the Sea, 



218 IN PRAISE OF POETS 

Following ever the joyful quest 
Of beauty on the shores of old Romance, 
Bard of the poor of France, 
And warrior-priest of world-wide charity! 

You who loved little children best 
Of all the poets that ever sung, 
Great heart, golden heart, 
Old, and yet ever young, 

Minstrel of liberty, 
Lover of all free, winged things, 

Now at last you are free, — 
Your soul has its wings! 
Heart of France for a hundred years, 

Floating far in the light that never fails you, 
Over the turmoil of mortal hopes and fears 

Victor, forever victor, the whole world hails you! 
March, 1902. 



LONGFELLOW 219 



LONGFELLOW 

In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches 

and confusion, 
Where there were many running to and fro, and shouting, and 

striving together, 
In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise, I heard the 

voice of one singing. 

"What are you doing there, O man, singing quietly amid all 

this tumult? 
This is the time for new inventions, mighty shoutings, and 

blowings of the trumpet." 
But he answered, "I am only shepherding my sheep with 



So he went along his chosen way, keeping his little flock around 

him; 
And he paused to listen, now and then, beside the antique 

fountains, 
Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed with musically 

falling waters; 



220 IN PRAISE OF POETS 

Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door, and heard the 

cling-clang of the anvils; 
Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells, that showered 

their chimes upon him; 
Or he walked along the border of the sea, drinking in the long 

roar of the billows; 

Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented shipyard, amid the 

tattoo of the mallets; 
Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting his thoughts flow 

with the whispering river; 
He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made them young again 

with his singing. 

Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock, and pierced 

the heart of his dearest! 
Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered the mystical 

temple of sorrow: 
Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he came out he 

was singing. 

And I saw the faces of men and women and children silently 

turning toward him; 
The youth setting out on the journey of life, and the old man 

waiting beside the last mile-stone; 
The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the happy mother 

rocking her cradle; 



LONGFELLOW 221 

The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the grey-minded scholar 

in his book-room; 
The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and the hunter 

in the forest; 
And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the wilderness of the 

city; 

Many human faces, full of care and longing, were drawn 

irresistibly toward him, 
By the charm of something known to every heart, yet very 

strange and lovely, 
And at the sound of his singing wonderfully all their faces 

were lightened. 

"Why do you listen, O you people, to this old and world- worn 

music? 
This is not for you, in the splendour of a new age, in the 

democratic triumph! 
Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the brazen 

trumpets of your poets." 

But the people made no answer, following in their hearts the 
simpler music: 

For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing could be better 
worth the hearing 

Than the melodies which brought sweet order into life's con- 
fusion. 



222 IN PRAISE OF POETS 

So the shepherd sang his way along, until he came into a 

mountain: 
And I know not surely whether the mountain was called 

Parnassus, 
But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard the voice of one 

singing. 
January, 1907. 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 223 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 

I 

BIRTHDAY VERSES, 1906 

Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days 
Have brought another Fesla round to you, 

You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise 
From friends the fleeting years have bound to you. 

Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy, 

Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian, 
And many more, to wish you birthday joy, 

And sunny hours, and sky cerulean! 

Your children all, they hurry to your den, 

With wreaths of honour they have won for you, 

To merry-make your threescore years and ten. 
You, old? Why, life has just begun for you! 

There's many a reader whom your silver songs 
And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. 

What though the newer writers come in throngs ? 
You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness. 



224 IN PRAISE OF POETS 

You do your work with careful, loving touch, — 
An artist to the very core of you, — 

You know the magic spell of " not- too-much": 
We read, — and wish that there was more of you. 

And more there is: for while we love your books 
Because their subtle skill is part of you; 

We love you better, for our friendship looks 
Behind them to the human heart of you. 

II 

MEMORIAL SONNET, 1908 
This is the house where little Aldrich read 
The early pages of Life's wonder-book 
With boyish pleasure: in this ingle-nook 
He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy shed 
Bright coloui on the pictures blue and red: 

Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took 
His happy way, with searching, dreamful look 
Among the deeper things more simply said. 

Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame 
Of Fancy played through all the tales he told, 

And still he won the laurelled poet's fame 

With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold. 

Look, here's the face to which this house is frame,- 
A man too wise to let his heart grow old! 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 225 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

(Read at His Funeral, January 21, 1908.) 

Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch 

Of beauty or of truth, 
Rich in the though tfulness of age, 

The hopefulness of youth, 
The courage of the gentle heart, 

The wisdom of the pure, 
The strength of finely tempered souls 

To labour and endure! 

The blue of springtime in your eyes 

Was never quenched by pain; 
And winter brought your head the crown 

Of snow without a stain. 
The poet's mind, the prince's heart, 

You kept until the end, 
Nor ever faltered in your work, 

Nor ever failed a friend. ' 

You followed, through the quest of life, 
The light that shines above 

The tumult and the toil of men, 
And shows us what to love. 



226 IN PRAISE OF POETS 

Right loyal to the best you knew, 

Reality or dream, 
You ran the race, you fought the fight, 

A follower of the Gleam. 

We lay upon your folded hands 

The wreath of asphodel; 
We speak above your peaceful face 

The tender word Farewell! 
For well you fare, in God's good care, 

Somewhere within the blue, 
And know, to-day, your dearest dreams 

Are true, — and true, — and true! 



TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 227 



TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

On His "Book of Joyous Children" 

Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers; 

Joyous children delight to play there; 
Weary men find rest in its bowers, 

Watching the lingering light of day there. 

Old-time tunes and young love-laughter 
Ripple and run among the roses; 

Memory's echoes, murmuring after, 
Fill the dusk when the long day closes. 

Simple songs with a cadence olden — 
These you learned in the Forest of Arden: 

Friendly flowers with hearts all golden — 
These you borrowed from Eden's garden. 

This is the reason why all men love you; 

Truth to life is the finest art: 
Other poets may soar above you — 

You keep close to the human heart. 
December, 1903. 



228 IN PRAISE OF POETS 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER 

In Memoriam 

Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame, 

Heart of a hero in a body frail; 

Thine was the courage clear that did not quail 
Before the giant champions of shame 
Who wrought dishonour to the city's name; 

And thine the vision of the Holy Grail 

Of Love, revealed through Music's lucid veil, 
Filling thy life with heavenly song and flame. 

Pure was the light that lit thy glowing eye, 

And strong the faith that held thy simple creed. 
Ah, poet, patriot, friend, to serve our need 

Thou lea vest two great gifts that will not die: 

Above the city's noise, thy lyric cry, — 
Amid the city's strife, thy noble deed! 

November, 1909. 



MUSIC 



MUSIC 
i 

PRELUDE 

I 

Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night 
When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight, 
She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart, 
Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn 
Into a single cry, and thou wast born! 
Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief; 
Invisible enchantress of the heart; 
Mistress of charms that bring relief 
To sorrow, and to joy impart 
A heavenly tone that keeps it undefiled, — 
Thou art the child 
Of Amor, and by right divine 
A throne of love is thine, 
Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen, 
Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen ! 



Thou art the Angel of the pool that sleeps, 
While peace and joy lie hidden in its deeps, 
Waiting thy touch to make the waters roll 
231 



232 MUSIC 

In healing murmurs round the weary soul. 

Ah, when wilt thou draw near, 
Thou messenger of mercy robed in song ? 
My lonely heart has listened for thee long; 
And now I seem to hear 
Across the crowded market-place of life, 

Thy measured foot-fall, ringing light and clear 
Above unmeaning noises and unruly strife. 
In quiet cadence, sweet and slow, 
Serenely pacing to and fro, 
Thy far-off steps are magical and dear, — 
Ah, turn this way, come close and speak to me! 
From this dull bed of languor set my spirit free, 
And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile with thee. 

II 

INVOCATION 

Where wilt thou lead me first? 
In what still region 
Of thy domain, 
Whose provinces are legion, 
Wilt thou restore me to myself again, 
And quench my heart's long thirst? 
I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down, 
And put away thy starry crown: 



MUSIC 233 

For one dear restful hour 

Assume a state more mild. 
Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown 
That breathes familiar scent of many a flower, 
Take the low path that leads through pastures green; 

And though thou art a Queen, 
Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower, 
By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled, 
Sing to my soul, as mother to her child. 

Ill 

PLAY SONG 

O lead me by the hand, 

And let my heart have rest, 
And bring me back to childhood land, 
To find again the long-lost band 

Of playmates blithe and blest. 

Some quaint, old-fashioned air, 

That all the children knew, 
Shall run before us everywhere, 
Like a little maid with flying hair, 

To guide the merry crew. 

Along the garden ways 

We chase the light-foot tune, 



234 MUSIC 

And in and out the flowery maze, 
With eager haste and fond delays, 
In pleasant paths of June. 

For us the fields are new, 

For us the woods are rife 
With fairy secrets, deep and true, 
And heaven is but a tent of blue 

Above the game of life. 

The world is far away: 

The fever and the fret, 
And all that makes the heart grow grey, 
Is out of sight and far away, 
Dear Music, while I hear thee play 
That olden, golden roundelay, 

"Remember and forget !" 

IV 

SLEEP SONG 

Forget, forget! 
The tide of life is turning; 
The waves of light ebb slowly down the west: 
Along the edge of dark some stars are burning 
To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest. 
A little rocking on the tranquil deep 



MUSIC 235 

Of song, to soothe thy yearning, 
A little slumber and a little sleep, 
And so, forget, forget! 

Forget, forget, — 
The day was long in pleasure; 
Its echoes die away across the hill; 
Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure, 
That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till all is still. 
Then, like a weary child that loves to keep 

Locked in its arms some treasure, 
Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep, 
And so forget, forget. 

Forget, forget, — 
And if thou hast been weeping, 
Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief: 
Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping 
The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf; 

Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep 

That one by one come creeping 
Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep, 
And so forget, forget! 

Forget, forget, — 
Thou art a child and knowest 
So little of thy life! But music tells 



236 MUSIC 

The secret of the world through which thou goest 
To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells: 
Life is in tune with harmony so deep 

That when the notes are lowest 
Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep, 
For God will not forget. 

V 

HUNTING SONG 

Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest, 
Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest. 
Hark, how the galloping measure 
Quickens the pulses of pleasure; 
Gaily saluting the morn 
With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, 
Echoing up from the valley, 
Over the mountain side, — 
Rally, you hunters, rally, 
Rally, and ride! 

Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine, 
Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine! 

Leave all your troubles behind you, 

Ride where they never can find you, 
Into the gladness of morn, 
With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, 



MUSIC 237 

Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow, 
Sweeping along with the wind, — 

Follow, you hunters, follow, 
Follow and find! 

What will you reach with your riding ? What is the charm of 

the chase? 
Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace. 
Danger is sweet when you front her, — 
In at the death, every hunter! 
Now on the breeze the mort is borne 
In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, 
Winding merrily, over and over, — 

Come, come, come! 
Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover! 
Turn again, home! 

VI 

DANCE-MUSIC 

T 

Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune, 
Weaving the mystical spell of the dance; 
Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune, 
Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance. 
Half of it sighing, half of it smiling, 



238 MUSIC 

Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat; 
Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling, 
Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet. 
Every drop of blood 
Rises with the flood, 
Rocking on the waves of the strain; 
Youth and beauty glide 
Turning with the tide — 
Music making one out of twain, 
Bearing them away, and away, and away, 

Like a tone and its terce — 
Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay, 
And reverse. 

Violins leading, take up the measure, 
Turn with the tune again, — clarinets clear 
Answer their pleading, — harps full of pleasure 
Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere. 

Semiquaver notes, 

Merry little motes, 

Tangled in the haze 

Of the lamp's golden rays, 

Quiver everywhere 
In the air, 
Like a spray, — 
Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune, 



MUSIC 239 

Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon, 
Bears them all away, and away, and away, 
Floating in the trance of the dance. 



Then begins a measure stately, 

Languid, slow, serene; 
All the dancers move sedately, 
Stepping leisurely and straitly, 

With a courtly mien; 
Crossing hands and changing places, 

Bowing low between, 
While the minuet inlaces 
Waving arms and woven paces, — 

Glittering damaskeen. 
Where is she whose form is folden 

In its royal sheen ? 
From our longing eyes withholden 
By her mystic girdle golden, 

Beauty sought but never seen, 
Music walks the maze, a queen. 

VII 

THE SYMPHONY 

Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art 

Is only to enchant the sense. 
For every timid motion of the heart, 



2 4 o MUSIC 

And every passion too intense 
To bear the chain of the imperfect word, 
And every tremulous longing, stirred 
By spirit winds that come we know not whence 
And go we know not where, 
And every inarticulate prayer 
Beating about the depths of pain or bliss, 

Like some bewildered bird 
That seeks its nest but knows not where it is, 
And every dream that haunts, with dim delight, 
The drowsy hour between the day and night, 
The wakeful hour between the night and day, — 
Imprisoned, waits for thee, 
Impatient, yearns for thee, 
The queen who comes to set the captive free! 
Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away, 
And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height; 
And every dumb desire that storms within the breast 
Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest. 

All these are thine, and therefore love is thine. 

For love is joy and grief, 
And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief, 
And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed, 
In pain most human, and in rapture brief 

Almost divine. 
Love would possess, yet deepens when denied; 



MUSIC 241 

And love would give, yet hungers to receive; 
Love like a prince his triumph would achieve; 
And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide. 
Love is most bold, 
He leads his dreams like armed men in line; 
Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak, 

Calling the fortress to resign 
Its treasure, valiant love grows weak, 
And hardly dares his purpose to unfold. 
Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes 
He claims the longed-for prize: 
Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold. 
But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach 
The mystery of measured tone, 
The Pentecostal speech 
That every listener heareth as his own. 
For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire, — 
Diminished chords that quiver with desire, 
And major chords that glow with perfect peace, — 
Have fallen from above; 
And thou canst give release 
In music to the burdened heart of love. 

Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, passionate strain 
The yearning theme, and let the flute reply 
In placid melody, while violins complain, 



242 MUSIC 

And sob, and sigh, 
With muted string; 
Then let the oboe half -reluctant sing 
Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain, 
While 'cellos plead and plead again, 
With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart 
To every urgent tone the beating of the heart. 

So runs the andante, making plain 
The hopes and fears of love without a word. 
Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme 
Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream, 
While horns and mild bassoons are heard 
In tender tune, that seems to float 

Like an enchanted boat 
Upon the downward-gliding stream, 
Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea 
Of dancing, glittering, blending tone, 
Where every instrument is sounding free, 
And harps like wedding-chimes are rung, and trump- 
ets blown 

Around the barque of love 
That rides, with smiling skies above, 

A royal galley, many-oared, 
Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord. 



MUSIC 243 

VIII 

IRIS 

Light to the eye and Music to the ear, — 
These are the builders of the bridge that springs 
From earth's dim shore of half-remembered things 

To reach the heavenly sphere 
Where nothing silent is and nothing dark. 

So when I see the rainbow's arc 
Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear 

Music, and every colour sings: 
And while the symphony builds up its round 
Full sweep of architectural harmony 
Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see 
A bow of colour in the bow of sound. 

Red as the dawn the trumpet rings; 

Blue as the sky, the choir of strings 
Darkens in double-bass to ocean's hue, 
Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue, 
With threads of quivering light shot through and through; 
Green as the mantle that the summer flings 
Around the world, the pastoral reeds in tune 
Embroider melodies of May and June. 
Purer than gold, 

Yea, thrice-refined gold, 
And richer than the treasures of the mine, 



244 MUSIC 

Floods of the human voice divine 
Along the arch in choral song are rolled. 
So bends the bow complete: 
And radiant rapture flows 
Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet, 
That the uplifted spirit hardly knows 
Whether the Music-Light that glows 
Within the arch of tones and colours seven 
Is sunset-peace of earth, or sunrise-joy of Heaven. 

IX 

SEA AND SHORE 

Music, I yield to thee 

As swimmer to the sea, 
I give my spirit to the flood of song! 

Bear me upon thy breast 

In rapture and at rest, 
Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong; 

From strife and struggle bring release, 
And draw the waves of passion into tides of peace. 

Remembered songs most dear 
In living songs I hear, 
While blending voices gently swing and sway, 
In melodies of love, 



MUSIC 245 

Whose mighty currents move 
With singing near and singing far away; 

Sweet in the glow of morning light, 
And sweeter still across the starlit gulf of night. 

Music, in thee we float, 

And lose the lonely note 
Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain, 

Until at last we find 

The life to love resigned 
In harmony of joy restored again; 

And songs that cheered our mortal days 
Break on the shore of light in endless hymns of 

praise. 
December, 1901 — May, 1903. 



246 MUSIC 



MASTER OF MUSIC 

(In Memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905) 

Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, 

Living forever in temple and picture and statue and song, — 
Look how the world with the lights that they lit is illumined 
and starred; 
Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their art 
burn long! 

Where is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished away? 
Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful art in 
the air? 
Gone, — it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close of the 
day! 
The Master has finished his work and the glory of music is — 
where? 

Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical sound 
Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet of old : 
Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped to the 
ground, 
Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous har- 
monies rolled! 



MASTER OF MUSIC 247 

Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that life-giving 
sea; 
Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will roll, 
Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened to 
thee, — 
The glory of music endures in the depths of the human soul. 



248 MUSIC 



TO A YOUNG GIRL SINGING 

Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear, 
And how have you made it your own? 

You have caught the turn of the melody clear, 
And you give it again with a golden tone, 
Till the wonder-word and the wedded note 
Are flowing out of your beautiful throat 
With a liquid charm for every ear: 
And they talk of your art, — but for you alone 
The song is a thing, unheard, unknown; 
You only have learned it by rote. 

But when you have lived for awhile, my dear, 
I think you will learn it anew! 

For a joy will come, or a grief, or a fear, 

That will alter the look of the world for you; 

And the lyric you learned as a bit of art, 

Will wake to life as a wonderful part 

Of the love you feel so deep and true; 

And the thrill of a laugh or the throb of a tear, 

Will come with your song to all who hear; 

For then you will know it by heart. 

April, 1911. 



THE PIPES O' PAN 249 



THE PIPES O' PAN 



Great Nature had a million words, 
In tongues of trees and songs of birds, 
But none to breathe the heart of man, 
Till Music filled the pipes o' Pan. 



250 MUSIC 



THE OLD FLUTE 

The time will come when I no more can play 
This polished flute: the stops will not obey 
My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves 
In modulations, like a vine with leaves 
Climbing around the tower of song, will die 
In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry. 
My shortened breath no more will freely fill 
This magic reed with melody at will; 
My stiffened lips will try and try in vain 
To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain; 
The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint 
Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint. 

Then let me hang this faithful friend of mine 
Upon the trunk of some old, sacred pine, 
And sit beneath the green protecting boughs 
To hear the viewless wind, that sings and soughs 
Above me, play its wild, aerial lute, 
And draw a ghost of music from my flute! 

So will I thank the gods; and most of all 
The Delian Apollo, whom men call 



THE OLD FLUTE 251 

The mighty master of immortal sound, — 

Lord of the billows in their chanting round, 

Lord of the winds that fill the wood with sighs, 

Lord of the echoes and their sweet replies, 

Lord of the little people of the air 

That sprinkle drops of music everywhere, 

Lord of the sea of melody that laves 

The universe with never silent waves, — 

Him will I thank that this brief breath of mine 

Has caught one cadence of the song divine; 

And these frail fingers learned to rise and fall 

In time with that great tune which throbs thro' all; 

And these poor lips have lent a lilt of joy 

To songless men whom weary tasks employ! 

My life has had its music, and my heart 

In harmony has borne a little part, 

Before I come with quiet, grateful breast 

To Death's dim hall of silence and of rest. 

Freely rendered from the French of Augu&te Angellier. 



LYRICS OF 
LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



A MILE WITH ME 

who will walk a mile with me 
Along life's merry way? 

A comrade blithe and full of glee, 
Who dares to laugh out loud and free, 
And let his frolic fancy play, 
Like a happy child, through the flowers gay 
That fill the field and fringe the way 
Where he walks a mile with me. 

And who will walk a mile with me 

Along life's weary way ? 
A friend whose heart has eyes to see 
The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea, 
And the quiet rest at the end o' the day, — 
A friend who knows, and dares to say, 
The brave, sweet words that cheer the way 

Where he walks a mile with me. 

With such a comrade, such a friend, 

1 fain would walk till journeys end, 
Through summer sunshine, winter rain, 
And then? — Farewell, we shall meet again! 

255 



256 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



THE THREE BEST THINGS 



WORK 

Let me but do my work from day to day, 
In field or forest, at the desk or loom, 
In roaring market-place or tranquil room; 

Let me but find it in my heart to say, 

When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, 

"This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; 
"Of all who live, I am the one by whom 

"This work can best be done in the right way." 

Then shall I see it not too great, nor small, 
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; 
Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, 
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall 
At eventide, to play and love and rest, 
Because I know for me my work is best. 



THE THREE BEST THINGS 257 

II 

LOVE 

Let me but love my love without disguise, 
Nor wear a mask of fashion old or new, 
Nor wait to speak till I can hear a clue, 

Nor play a part to shine in others' eyes, 

Nor bow my knees to what my heart denies; 
But what I am, to that let me be true, 
And let me worship where my love is due, 

And so through love and worship let me rise. 

For love is but the heart's immortal thirst 
To be completely known and all forgiven, 
Even as sinful souls that enter Heaven: 

So take me, dear, and understand my worst, 

And freely pardon it, because confessed, 

And let me find in loving thee, my best. 



258 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

III 

LITE 

Let me but live my life from year to year, 
With forward face and unreluetant soul; 
Not hurrying to, nor turning from, the goal; 

Not mourning for the things that disappear 

In the dim past, nor holding back in fear 
From what the future veils; but with a whole 
And happy heart, that pays its toll 

To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer. 

So let the way wind up the hill or down, 

O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: 
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy, 
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown, 
My heart will keep the courage of the quest, 
And hope the road's last turn will be the best. 



RELIANCE 259 



RELIANCE 

Not to the swift, the race: 
Not to the strong, the fight: 
Not to the righteous, perfect grace: 
Not to the wise, the light. 

But often faltering feet 
Come surest to the goal; 
And they who walk in darkness meet 
The sunrise of the soul. 

A thousand times by night 
The Syrian hosts have died; 
A thousand times the vanquished right 
Hath risen, glorified. 

The truth the wise men sought 
Was spoken by a child; 
The alabaster box was brought 
In trembling hands defiled. 

Not from my torch, the gleam, 
But from the stars above: 
Not from my heart, life's crystal stream, 
But from the depths of Love. 



2 6o LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



DOORS OF DARING 

The mountains that inclose the vale 
With walls of granite, steep and high, 

Invite the fearless foot to scale 
Their stairway toward the sky. 

The restless, deep, dividing sea 

That flows and foams from shore to shore, 
Calls to its sunburned chivalry, 

"Push out, set sail, explore !" 

The bars of life at which we fret, 
That seem to prison and control, 

Are but the doors of daring, set 
Ajar before the soul. 

Say not, "Too poor/' but freely give; 

Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try; 
You never can begin to live 

Until you dare to die. 



A HOME SONG 261 



A HOME SONG 

I bead within a poet's book 
A word that starred the page: 

" Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Nor iron bars a cage!" 

Yes, that is true, and something more: 
You'll find, where'er you roam, 

That marble floors and gilded walls 
Can never make a home. 

But every house where Love abides, 

And Friendship is a guest, 
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: 

For there the heart can rest. 



262 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 

When to the garden of untroubled thought 
I came of late, and saw the open door, 
And wished again to enter, and explore 

The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, 

And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, 
It seemed some purer voice must speak before 
I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, 

That Eden lost unknown and found unsought. 

Then just within the gate I saw a child, — 
A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear; 

He held his hands to me, and softly smiled 
With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: 

"Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; 

"I am the little child you used to be." 



LOVE'S REASON 263 



LOVE'S REASON 

For that thy face is fair I love thee not; 
Nor yet because thy brown benignant eyes 
Have sudden gleams of gladness and surprise, 

Like woodland brooks that cross a sunlit spot: 

Nor for thy body, born without a blot, 
And loveliest when it shines with no disguise 
Pure as the star of Eve in Paradise, — 

For all these outward things I love thee not: 

But for a something in thy form and face, 
Thy looks and ways, of primal harmony; 

A certain soothing charm, a vital grace 
That breathes of the eternal womanly, 

And makes me feel the warmth of Nature's breast, 

When in her arms, and thine, I sink to rest. 



264 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



PORTRAIT AND REALITY 

If on the closed curtain of my sight 
My fancy paints thy portrait far away, 
I see thee still the same, by night or day; 

Crossing the crowded street, or moving bright 

'Mid festal throngs, or reading by the light 
Of shaded lamp some friendly poet's lay, 
Or shepherding the children at their play, — 

The same sweet self, and my unchanged delight. 

But when I see thee near, I recognize 
In every dear familiar way some strange 

Perfection, and behold in April guise 
The magic of thy beauty that doth range 

Through many moods with infinite surprise, — 
Never the same, and sweeter with each change. 



THE ECHO IN THE HEART 265 



THE ECHO IN THE HEART 

It's little I can tell 
About the birds in books; 

And yet I know them well, 
By their music and their looks: 

When May comes down the lane, 
Her airy lovers throng 
To welcome her with song, 
And follow in her train: 
Each minstrel weaves his part 
In that wild-flowery strain, 
And I know them all again 
By their echo in my heart. 

It's little that I care 

About my darling's place 
In books of beauty rare, 
Or heraldries of race: 

For when she steps in view, 
It matters not to me 
What her sweet type may be, 
Of woman, old or new. 



266 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

I can't explain the art, 
But I know her for my own, 
Because her lightest tone 
Wakes an echo in my heart. 



" UNDINE » 

'Twas far away and long ago, 

When I was but a dreaming boy, 
This fairy tale of love and woe 

Entranced my heart with tearful joy; 
And while with white Undine I wept 

Your spirit, — ah, how strange it seems, 
Was cradled in some star, and slept, 

Unconscious of her coming dreams. 



RENCONTRE" 20 7 



"RENCONTRE" 

Oh was I bom too soon, my dear, or were you bom too late 
That I am going out the door while you come in the gate? 
For you the garden blooms galore, the castle is en fete; 
You are the coming guest, my dear,-for me the horses wa,t. 

I know the mansion well, my dear, its rooms so rich and wide; 
If you had only come before I might have been your guide, 
And hand in hand with you explore the treasures that they hide; 
But you have come to stay, my dear, and I prepare to ride. 

Then walk with me an hour, my dear, and pluck the reddest 



rose 



Amid the white and crimson store with which your garden 

glows, — 
A single rose,-I ask no more of what your love bestows; 
It is enough to give, my dear,-a flower to him who goes. 

The House of Life is yours, my dear, for many and many a day, 
But I must ride the lonely shore, the Road to Far Away: 
So bring the stirrup-cup and pour a brimming draught, I pray, 
And when you take the road, my dear, I'll meet you on the way. 



268 LYRICS OF LARottd . 

LA BOUR AND ROMANCE 



L OVE IN A L00K 

LErme but feel % look's embrace) 

A ^rr 3 ^'' PUre ' Md w «», 
^ II not ask to touch thy^, 

° r fold thee in mine arm 
For in thine eyes . girl doth rise, 

Arrayed in candid bliss, 
And draws me to her with a chann 

More close than any kiss. 

A loving-cup of golden wine, 
Songs of a silver brook 

And fragrant breaths of eglantine, 
Are mingled in thy look 

More fair they are than any star, 
1 ny topaz eyes divine— 

^P within their trysting-nook 
T V spirit blends with mine 



MY APRIL LADY 269 



MY APRIL LADY 

When down the stair at morning 

The sunbeams round her float, 
Sweet rivulets of laughter 

Are rippling in her throat; 
The gladness of her greeting 

Is gold without alloy; 
And in the morning sunlight 

I think her name is Joy. 

When in the evening twilight 

The quiet book-room lies, 
We read the sad old ballads, 

While from her hidden eyes 
The tears are falling, falling, 

That give her heart relief; 
And in the evening twilight, 

I think her name is Grief. 

My little April lady, 

Of sunshine and of showers 
She weaves the old spring magic, 

And breaks my heart in flowers! 



270 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

But when her moods are ended, 
She nestles like a dove; 

Then, by the pain and rapture, 
I know her name is Love. 



A LOVER'S ENVY 271 



A LOVER'S ENVY 

I envy every flower that blows 
Along the meadow where she goes, 
And every bird that sings to her, 
And every breeze that brings to her 
The fragrance of the rose. 

I envy every poet's rhyme 
That moves her heart at eventime, 
And every tree that wears for her 
Its brightest bloom, and bears for her 
The fruitage of its prime. 

I envy every Southern night 

That paves her path with moonbeams white, 
And silvers all the leaves for her, 
And in their shadow weaves for her 
A dream of dear delight. 

I envy none whose love requires 
Of her a gift, a task that tires: 

I only long to live to her, 

I only ask to give to her, 
All that her heart desires. 



272 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



FIRE-FLY CITY 

Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, 
Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's delight: 

Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting, 

I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the night. 

Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing, 

Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still athwart 
my dream; 

Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing, 
A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam. 

Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in millions; 
Long avenues unfold clear- shining lines of gold across the 
green; 
Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions, — 

Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these wonders 
mean? 

Why do they beckon me, and what have they to show me? 

Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the feasters meet, 
kisses and wine: 
Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me: 

A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat with mine! 



THE GENTLE TRAVELLER 273 

Look how the glittering lines are wavering and lifting, — 
Softly the breeze of night scatters the vision bright: and, 
passing fair, 

Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting, 
The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air! 



THE GENTLE TRAVELLER 

"Through many a land your journey ran, 
And showed the best the world can boast: 
Now tell me, traveller, if you can, 
The place that pleased you most." 

She laid her hands upon my breast, 
And murmured gently in my ear, 
"The place I loved and liked the best 
Was in your arms, my dear!" 



274 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



NEPENTHE 

Yes, it was like you to forget, 

And cancel in the welcome of your smile 

My deep arrears of debt, 

And with the putting forth of both your hands 

To sweep away the bars my folly set 

Between us — bitter thoughts, and harsh demands, 

And reckless deeds that seemed untrue 

To love, when all the while 

My heart was aching through and through 

For you, sweet heart, and only you. 

Yet, as I turned to come to you again, 

I thought there must be many a mile 

Of sorrowful reproach to cross, 

And many an hour of mutual pain 

To bear, until I could make plain 

That all my pride was but the fear of loss, 

And all my doubt the shadow of despair 

To win a heart so innocent and fair; 

And even that which looked most ill 

Was but the fever-fret and effort vain 

To dull the thirst which you alone could still. 

But as I turned, the desert miles were crossed, 
And when I came, the weary hours were sped! 



NEPENTHE 275 

For there you stood beside the open door, 

Glad, gracious, smiling as before, 

And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread 

Restored me to the Eden I had lost. 

Never a word of cold reproof, 

No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse 

The culprit whom they hold aloof, — 

Ah, 'tis not thus that, other women use 

The empire they have won! 

For there is none like you, beloved, — none 

Secure enough to do what you have done. 

Where did you learn this heavenly art, — 

You sweetest and most wise of all that live, — 

With silent welcome to impart 

Assurance of the royal heart 

That never questions where it would forgive ? 

None but a queen could pardon me like this ! 

My sovereign lady, let me lay 

Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss 

Of penitence, then close the fingers up, 

Thus — thus! Now give the cup 

Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth, 

And come — the garden blooms with bliss, 

The wind is in the south, 

The rose of love with dew is wet — 

Dear, it was like you to forget! 



276 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



DAY AND NIGHT 

How long is the night, brother, 

And how long is the day? 
Oh, the day's too short for a happy task, 

And the day's too short for play; 
And the night's too short for the bliss of love, — 

For look, how the edge of the sky grows gray, 
While the stars die out in the blue above, 

And the wan moon fades away. 

How short is the day, brother, 

And how short is the night? 
Oh, the day's too long for a heavy task, 

And long, long, long is the night, 
When the wakeful hours are rilled with pain, 

And the sad heart waits for the thing it fears, 
And sighs for the dawn to come again, — 

The night is a thousand years! 

How long is a life, dear God, 

And how fast does it flow? 
The measure of life is a flame in the soul : 

It is neither swift nor slow. 



HESPER 277 

But the vision of time is the shadow cast 
By the fleeting world on the body's wall; 

When it fades there is neither future nor past, 
But love is all in all. 



HESPER 

Her eyes are like the evening air, 
Her voice is like a rose, 

Her lips are like a lovely song, 
That ripples as it flows, 

And she herself is sweeter than 
The sweetest thing she knows. 

A slender, haunting, twilight form 
Of wonder and surprise, 

She seemed a fairy or a child, 
Till, deep within her eyes, 

I saw the homeward-leading star 
Of womanhood arise. 



278 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



ARRIVAL 

Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, 

Along a path I had not traced and could not understand, 

I travelled fast and far for this, — to take thee by the hand. 

A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his 

knee, 
A mariner without a dream of what his port would be, 
So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to thee. 

O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary place, 

O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race, 

The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face! 

Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths of foam! 
The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home 
To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam. 



DEPARTURE 279 



DEPARTURE 

Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, 

And why is the garden so gay? 
Do you know that my days of delight are done, 

Do you know I am going away ? 
If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dream 

You were sorry for me in my pain, 
And the heavily drooping flowers would seem 

To be weeping with me in the rain. 

But why is your head so low, sweet heart, 

And why are your eyes overcast? 
Are you crying because you know we must part, 

Do you think this embrace is our last? 
Then kiss me again, and again, and again, 

Look up as you bid me good-bye! 
For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear, 

And your smile is the sun in my sky. 



2 8o LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



THE BLACK BIRDS 



Once, only once, I saw it clear, — 

That Eden every human heart has dreamed 

A hundred times, but always far away! 

Ah, well do I remember how it seemed. 

Through the still atmosphere 

Of that enchanted day, 

To lie wide open to my weary feet: 

A little land of love and joy and rest, 

With meadows of soft green, 

Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet 

With delicate breath of violets unseen, — 

And, tranquil 'mid the bloom 

As if it waited for a coming guest, 

A little house of peace and joy and love 

Was nested like a snow-white dove. 

II 

From the rough mountain where I stood, 

Homesick for happiness, 

Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood 



THE BLACK BIRDS 281 

To cross, and then the long distress 

Of solitude would be forever past, — 

I should be home at last. 

But not too soon ! oh, let me linger here 

And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow, 

On all this loveliness, so near, 

And mine to-morrow ! 



Ill 

Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue, 

A dark bird flew, 

Silent, with sable wings. 

Close in his wake another came, — 

Fragments of midnight floating through 

The sunset flame, — 

Another and another, weaving rings 

Of blackness on the primrose sky, — 

Another, and another, look, a score, 

A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily 

From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, 

They boiled into the lucid air 

Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair! 

And more, and more, and ever more, 

The numberless, ill-omened brood 

Flapping their ragged plumes, 



282 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

Possessed the landscape and the evening light 

With menaces and glooms. 

Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place 

Where once I saw the little house so white 

Amid the flowers, covering every trace 

Of beauty from my troubled sight, — 

And suddenly it was night! 



IV 

At break of day I crossed the wooded vale; 

And while the morning made 

A trembling light among the tree-tops pale, 

I saw the sable birds on every limb, 

Clinging together closely in the shade, 

And croaking placidly their surly hymn. 

But, oh, the little land of peace and love 

That those night-loving wings had poised above, 

Where was it gone ? 

Lost, lost, forevermore! 

Only a cottage, dull and gray, 

In the cold light of dawn, 

With iron bars across the door: 

Only a garden where the drooping head 

Of one sad rose, foreboding its decay, 

Hung o'er a barren bed: 



THE BLACK BIRDS 283 

Only a desolate field that lay 

Untilled beneath the desolate day, — 

Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these! 

So, wondering, I passed along my way, 

With anger in my heart, too deep for words, 

Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees, 

And the black magic of the croaking birds. 



284 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



WITHOUT DISGUISE 

If I have erred in showing all my heart, 

And lost your favour by a lack of pride; 

If standing like a beggar at your side 
With naked feet, I have forgot the art 
Of those who bargain well in passion's mart, 

And win the thing they want by what they hide; 

Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied, 
Be mine the lover's and the loser's part. 

The sin, if sin it was, I do repent, 
And take the penance on myself alone; 

Yet after I have borne the punishment, 
I shall not fear to stand before the throne 

Of Love with open heart, and make this plea: 

"At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!" 



AN HOUR 285 



AN HOUR 

You only promised me a single hour: 
But while it passed I journeyed through a year 
Of life: the joy of finding you, — the fear 

Of losing you again, — the sense of power 

To make you all my own, — the sudden shower 
Of tears that came because you were more dear 
Than words could ever tell, — and then, the clear 

Enraptured bloom of love's soft crimson flower. 

An hour, — a year, — I felt your bosom rise 
And fall with mystic tides, and saw the gleam 

Of undiscovered stars within yours eyes, — 
A year, — an hour? I knew not, for the stream 

Of love had carried me to Paradise, 
And all the forms of Time were like a dream. 



2 S6 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



"RAPPELLE-TOI" 

Remember, when the timid light 

Through the enchanted hall of dawn is gleaming; 
Remember, when the pensive night 

Beneath her silver-sprinkled veil walks dreaming; 
When pleasure calls thee and thy heart beats high, 
When tender joys through evening shades draw nigh, 
Hark, from the woodland deeps 
A gentle whisper creeps, 
Remember! 

Remember, when the hand of fate 

My life from thine forevermore has parted; 
When sorrow, exile, and the weight 

Of lonely years have made me heavy-hearted; 
Think of my loyal love, my last adieu; 
Absence and time are naught, if we are true; 
Long as my heart shall beat, 
To thine it will repeat, 
Remember! 

Remember, when the cool, dark tomb 
Receives my heart into its quiet keeping, 



"RAPPELLE-TOI" 287 

And some sweet flower begins to bloom 

Above the grassy mound where I am sleeping; 
Ah then, my face thou nevermore shalt see, 
But still my soul will linger close to thee, 
And in the holy place of night, 
The litany of love recite, — 
Remember! 
From the French of Alfred de Musset. 



288 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



EIGHT ECHOES FROM THE POEMS OF 
AUGUSTE ANGELLIER 

I 

THE IVORY CRADLE 

The cradle I have made for thee 

Is carved of orient ivory, 

And curtained round with wavy silk 

More white than hawthorn-bloom or milk. 

A twig of box, a lilac spray, 
Will drive the goblin-horde away; 
And charm thy childlike heart to keep 
Her happy dream and virgin sleep. 

Within that pure and fragrant nest, 
I'll rock thy gentle soul to rest, 
With tender songs we need not fear 
To have a passing angel hear. 

Ah, long and long I fain would hold 
The snowy curtain's guardian fold 
Around thy crystal visions, born 
In clearness of the early morn. 



DREAMS 289 



But look, the sun is glowing red 
With triumph in his golden bed; 
Aurora's virgin whiteness dies 
In crimson glory of the skies. 

The rapid flame will burn its way 
Through these white curtains, too. one day; 
The ivory cradle will be left 
Undone, and broken, and bereft. 

n 

DREAMS 

Often I dream your big blue eyes. 

Though loth their meaning to confess,, 
Regard me with a clear surprise 

Of dawning tenderness. 

Often I dream you gladly hear 

The words I hardly dare to breathe, — 
The words that falter in their fear 
To tell what throbs beneath. 

Often I dream your hand in mine 

Falls like a flower at eventide, 

And down the path we leave a line 

Of footsteps side by side. 



290 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

But ah, in all my dreams of bliss, 

In passion's hunger, fever's drouth, 
I never dare to dream of this: 
My lips upon your mouth. 

And so I dream your big blue eyes, 
That look on me with tenderness, 
Grow wide, and deep, and sad, and wise, 
And dim with dear distress. 



Ill 

THE GARLAND OF SLEEP 

A wreath of poppy flowers, 
With leaves of lotus blended, 

Is carved on Life's facade of hours, 
From night to night suspended. 

Along the columned wall, 

From birth's low portal starting, 

It flows, with even rise and fall, 
To death's dark door of parting. 

How short each measured arc, 
How brief the columns' number! 

The wreath begins and ends in dark, 
And leads from sleep to slumber. 



TRANQUIL HABIT 291 

The marble garland seems, 

With braided leaf and bloom, 
To deck the palace of our dreams 

As if it were a tomb. 



IV 

TRANQUIL HABIT 

Dear tranquil Habit, with her silent hands, 

Doth heal our deepest wounds from day to day 
With cooling, soothing oil, and firmly lay 

Around the broken heart her gentle bands. 

Her nursing is as calm as Nature's care; 

She doth not weep with us; yet none the less 
Her quiet fingers weave forgetfulness, — 

We fall asleep in peace when she is there. 

Upon the mirror of the mind her breath 
Is like a cloud, to hide the fading trace 
Of that dear smile, of that remembered face, 

Whose presence were the joy and pang of death. 

And he who clings to sorrow overmuch, 

Weeping for withered grief, has cause to bless, 
More than all cries of pity and distress, — 

Dear tranquil Habit, thy consoling touch ! 



292 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

V 

THE OLD BRIDGE 

On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones 
All covered with lichens red and gray, 
Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones: 
And we were they! 

As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear 
The love that he vowed would never die, 
He called her his darling, his dove most dear: 
And he was I! 

She covered her face from the pale moonlight 
With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through, 
And listened and listened with long delight: 
And she was you! 

On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust, 
Two lovers are learning the same old lore; 
He tells his love, and she looks her trust: 
But we, — no more! 



SONNETS OF ANGELLIER 293 

VI 

EYES AND LIPS 
I 

Our silent eyes alone interpreted 
The new-born feeling in the heart of each: 
In yours I read your sorrow without speech, 

Your lonely struggle in their tears unshed. 

Behind their dreamy sweetness, as a veil, 
I saw the moving lights of trouble shine; 
And then my eyes were brightened as with wine, 

My spirit reeled to see your face grow pale! 

Our deepening love, that is not yet allowed 
Another language than the eyes, doth learn 

To speak it perfectly: above the crowd 

Our looks exchange avowals and desires, — 
Like wave-divided beacon lights that burn, 

And talk to one another by their fires. 



When I embrace her in a fragrant shrine 
Of climbing roses, my first kiss shall fall 
On you, sweet eyes, that mutely told me all, — 

Through you my soul will rise to make her mine. 



294 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

Upon your drooping lids, blue- veined and fair, 
The touch of tenderness I first will lay, 
You springs of joy, lights of my gloomy day, 

Whose dear discovered secret bade me dare! 

And when you open, eyes of my fond dove, 

Your look will shine with new delight, made sure 

By this forerunner of a faithful love. 

'Tis just, dear eyes, so pensive and so pure, 

That you should bear the sealing kisses true 

Of love unhoped that came to me through you. 



This was my thought; but when beneath the rose 
That hides the lonely bench where lovers rest, 
In friendly dusk I held her on my breast 

For one brief moment, — while I saw you close, 

Dear, yielding eyes, as if your lids, blue-veined 
And pure, were meekly fain at last to bear 
The proffered homage of my wistful prayer, — 

In that high moment, by your grace obtained, 

Forgetting your avowals, your alarms, 

Your anguish and your tears, sweet weary eyes, 
Forgetting that you gave her to my arms, 



SONNETS OF ANGELLIER 295 

I broke my promise; and my first caress, 

Ungrateful, sought her lips in sweet surprise, — 
Her lips, which breathed a word of tenderness! 



VII 

AN EVOCATION 

When first upon my brow I felt your kiss, 

A sudden splendour filled me, like the ray 
That promptly /uns to crown the hills with bliss 

Of purple dawn before the golden day, 
And ends the gloom it crosses at one leap. 

My brow was not unworthy your caress; 
For some foreboding joy had bade me keep 

From all affront the place your lips would bless. 

Yet when your mouth upon my mouth did lay 
The royal touch, no rapture made me thrill, 
But I remained confused, ashamed, and still; 
Beneath your kiss, my queen without a stain, 
I felt, — like ghosts who rise at Judgment Day, — 
A throng of ancient kisses vile and vain! 



296 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

VIII 

RESIGNATION 



Well, you will triumph, dear and noble friend! 
The holy love that wounded you so deep 
Will bring you balm, and on your heart asleep 

The fragrant dew of healing will descend. 

Your children, — ah, how quickly they will grow 
Between us, like a wall that fronts the sun, 
Lifting a screen with rosy buds o'errun, 

To hide the shaded path where I must go. 

You'll walk in light; and dreaming less and less 
Of him who droops in gloom beyond the wall, 

Your mother-soul will fill with happiness 
When first you hear your grandchild's babbling call, 

Beneath the braided bloom of flower and leaf 

That life has wrought to veil your vanished grief. 



Then I alone shall suffer! I shall bear 
The double burden of our grief alone, 

While I enlarge my soul to take your share 
Of pain and hold it close beside my own. 



SONNETS OF ANGELLIER 297 

Our love is torn asunder; but the crown 
Of thorns that love has woven I will make 

My relic sacrosanct, and press it down 

Upon my bleeding heart that will not break. 

Ah, that will be the depth of solitude! 
For my regret, that evermore endures, 
Will know that new-born hope has conquered yours; 

And when the evening comes, no gentle brood 

Of wondering children, gathered at my side, 

Will sooth away the tears I cannot hide. 
Freely rendered from the French, 191 1. 



298 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



LOVE'S NEARNESS 

I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer 

Across the sea; 
And when the waves reflect the moon's pale shimmer 

I think of thee. 

I see thy form when down the distant highway 

The dust-clouds rise; 
In darkest night, above the mountain by-way 

I see thine eyes. 

I hear thee when the ocean-tides returning 

Aloud rejoice; 
And on the lonely moor in silence yearning 

I hear thy voice. 

I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed, 

Yet thou art near. 
The sun goes down, the stars shine out, — Beloved 

If thou wert here! 
From the German of Goethe, 1898. 



TWO SONGS OF HEINE 299 



TWO SONGS OF HEINE 



A fir-tree standeth lonely 
On a barren northern height, 
Asleep, while winter covers 
His rest with robes of white. 

In dreams, he sees a palm-tree 
In the golden morning-land; 
She droops alone and silent 
In burning wastes of sand. 



II 



Fair art thou as a flower 

And innocent and shy: 
I look on thee and sorrow; 

I grieve, I know not why. 

I long to lay, in blessing, 
My hand upon thy brow, 

And pray that God may keep thee 
As fair and pure as now. 

1872. 



3 oo LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 



THE RIVER OF DREAMS 

The river of dreams runs quietly down 

From its hidden home in the forest of sleep, 
With a measureless motion calm and deep; 

And my boat slips out on the current brown, 
In a tranquil bay where the trees incline 
Far over the waves, and creepers twine 
Far over the boughs, as if to steep 
Their drowsy bloom in the tide that goes 
By a secret way that no man knows, 

Under the branches bending, 

Under the shadows blending, 

While the body rests, and the passive soul 
Is drifted along to an unseen goal, 

While the river of dreams runs down. 

The river of dreams runs gently down, 

With a leisurely flow that bears my bark 
Out of the visionless woods of dark, 

Into a glory that seems to crown 

Valley and hill with light from far, 
Clearer than sun or moon or star, 
Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark 



THE RIVER OF DREAMS 301 

How the radiance pulses everywhere, 

In the shadowless vault of lucid air! 
Over the mountains shimmering, 
Up from the fountains glimmering, — 

'Tis the mystical glow of the inner light, 

That shines in the very noon of night, 
While the river of dreams runs down. 

The river of dreams runs murmuring down, 
Through the fairest garden that ever grew; 
And now, as my boat goes drifting through, 

A hundred voices arise to drown 

The river's whisper, and charm my ear 
With a sound I have often longed to hear, — 
A magical music, strange and new, 
The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song, 
The virginal chant of the lilies' throng, 

Blue-bells silverly ringing, 

Pansies merrily singing, — 

For all the flowers have found their voice; 
And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice, 

While the river of dreams runs down. 

The river of dreams runs broadening down, 
Away from the peaceful garden-shore, 
With a current that deepens more and more, 



3 o2 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

By the league-long walls of a mighty town; 
And I see the hurrying crowds of men 
Gather like clouds and dissolve again; 
But never a face I have seen before. 
They come and go, they shift and change, 
Their ways and looks are wild and strange, — 

This is a city haunted, 

A multitude enchanted! 

At the sight of the throng I am dumb with fear, 
And never a sound from their lips I hear, 

While the river of dreams runs down. 

The river of dreams runs darkly down 

Into the heart of a desolate land, 

With ruined temples half-buried in sand, 
And riven hills, whose black brows frown 

Over the shuddering, lonely wave. 

The air grows dim with the dust of the grave; 

No sign of life on the dreary strand; 

No ray of light on the moutain's crest; 

And a weary wind that cannot rest 
Comes down the valley creeping, 
Lamenting, wailing, weeping, — 

I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath 

Is choked with the clinging fog of death, 
While the river of dreams runs down. 



THE RIVER OF DREAMS 303 

The river of dreams runs trembling down, 
Out of the valley of nameless fear, 
Into a country calm and clear, 

With a mystical name of high renown, — 

A name that I know, but may not tell, — 
And there the friends that I loved so well, 
Old companions forever dear, 
Come beckoning down to the river shore, 
And hail my boat with the voice of yore. 

Fair and sweet are the places 

Where I see their unchanged faces! 

And I feel in my heart with a secret thrill, 
That the loved and lost are living still, 

While the river of dreams runs down. 

The river of dreams runs dimly down 
By a secret way that no man knows; 
But the soul lives on while the river flows 

Through the gardens bright and the forests brown; 
And I often think that our whole life seems 
To be more than half made up of dreams. 
The changing sights and the passing shows, 
The morning hopes and the midnight fears, 
Are left behind with the vanished years; 

Onward, with ceaseless motion, 

The life-stream flows to the ocean, 



3 04 LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE 

While we follow the tide, awake or asleep, 
Till we see the dawn on Love's great deep, 
And the shadows melt, and the soul is free, — 
The river of dreams has reached the sea. 
1900. 



SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



"LITTLE BOATIE" 

A Slumber-song for the Fisherman's Child 

Furl your sail, my little boatie; 

Here's the haven still and deep, 
Where the dreaming tides in-streaming 

Up the channel creep. 
Now the sunset breeze is dying; 
Hear the plover, landward flying, 
Softly down the twilight crying; 
Come to anchor, little boatie, 
In the port of Sleep. 

Far away, my little boatie, 

Roaring waves are white with foam; 
Ships are striving, onward driving, 
Day and night they roam. 
Father's at the deep-sea trawling, 
In the darkness, rowing, hauling, 
While the hungry winds are calling, — 
God protect him, little boatie, 
Bring him safely home! 
307 



308 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

Not for you, my little boatie, 

Is the wide and weary sea; 
You're too slender, and too tender, 
You must bide with me. 
All day long you have been straying 
Up and down the shore and playing; 
Come to harbour, no delaying! 
Day is over, little boatie, 
Night falls suddenly. 

Furl your sail, my little boatie, 

Fold your wings, my weary dove. 
Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling 

Drowsily above. 
Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; 
Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing 
Safely o'er your rest are glowing, 
All the night, my little boatie, 
Harbour-lights of love. 



A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY 309 



A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY 

Lord Jesus, Thou hast known 
A mother's love and tender care: 
And Thou wilt hear, 
While for my own 
Mother most dear 

I make this birthday prayer. 

Protect her life, I pray, 
Who gave the gift of life to me; 
And may she know, 
From day to day, 
The deepening glow 

Of joy that comes from Thee. 

As once upon her breast 

Fearless and well content I lay, 
So let her heart, 

On Thee at rest, 
Feel fear depart 

And trouble fade away. 



310 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

Ah, hold her by the hand, 
As once her hand held mine; 
And though she may 

Not understand 
Life's winding way, 

Lead her in peace divine. 

I cannot pay my debt 

For all the love that she has given; 
But Thou, love's Lord, 

Wilt not forget 
Her due reward, — 

Bless her in earth and heaven. 



SANTA CHRISTINA 311 



SANTA CHRISTINA 

Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls 
That His own hand hath planted, 

Not in some far-off heavenly place, 
Or solitude enchanted, 

But here and there and everywhere, — 
In lonely field, or crowded town, 
God sees a flower when He looks down. 

Some wear the lily's stainless white, 

And some the rose of passion, 
And some, the violet's heavenly blue, 

But each in its own fashion, 
With silent bloom and soft perfume, 

Is praising Him who from above 

Beholds each lifted face of love. 

One such I knew, — and had the grace 
To thank my God for knowing: 

The beauty of her quiet life 
Was like a rose in blowing, 

So fair and sweet, so all-complete 



3 i2 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

And all unconscious, as a flower, 

That light and fragrance were her dower. 

No convent-garden held this rose, 

Concealed like secret treasure; 
No royal terrace guarded her 

For some sole monarch's pleasure. 
She made her shrine, this saint of mine, 

In a bright home where children played; 

And there she wrought and there she prayed. 

In sunshine, when the days were glad, 

She had the art of keeping 
The clearest rays, to give again 

In days of rain and weeping; 
Her blessed heart could still impart 

Some portion of its secret grace, 

And charity shone in her face. 

In joy she grew from year to year; 

And sorrow made her sweeter; 
And every comfort, still more kind; 

And every loss, completer. 
Her children came to love her name, — 

"Christina," — 'twas a lip's caress; 

And when they called, they seemed to bless. 



SANTA CHRISTINA 313 

No more they call, for she is gone 

Too far away to hear them; 
And yet they often breathe her name 

As if she lingered near them; 
They cannot reach her with love's speech, 

But when they say " Christina" now 

'T is like a prayer or like a vow : 

A vow to keep her life alive 

In deeds of pure affection, 
So that her love shall find in them 

A daily resurrection; 
A constant prayer that they may wear 

Some touch of that supernal light 

With which she blossoms in God's sight. 



3H SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



RENDEZVOUS 

I count that friendship little worth 
Which has not many things untold, 
Great longings that no words can hold, 

And passion-secrets waiting birth. 

Along the slender wires of speech 

Some message from the heart is sent; 
But who can tell the whole that's meant? 

Our dearest thoughts are out of reach. 

I have not seen thee, though mine eyes 
Hold now the image of thy face; 
In vain, through form, I strive to trace 

The soul I love: that deeper lies. 

A thousand accidents control 

Our meeting here. Clasp hand in hand, 
And swear to meet me in that land 

Where friends hold converse soul to soul. 



GRATITUDE 315 



GRATITUDE 

"Do you give thanks for this? — or that?" No, God be 
thanked 

I am not grateful 
In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked 
As one, two, three, and four, — that would be hateful. 

I only know that every day brings good above 

My poor deserving; 
I only feel that in the road of Life true Love 
Is leading me along and never swerving. 

Whatever gifts and mercies to my lot may fall, 

I would not measure 
As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small; 
But take and use them all with simple pleasure. 

For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless 

The Hand that feeds us; 
And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness, 
Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us. 



316 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



TRANSFORMATION 

Only a little shrivelled seed, 
It might be flower, or grass, or weed; 
Only a box of earth on the edge 
Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge; 
Only a few scant summer showers; 
Only a few clear shining hours; 
That was all. Yet God could make 
Out of these, for a sick child's sake, 
A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet 
As ever broke at an angel's feet. 

Only a life of barren pain, 
Wet with sorrowful tears for rain, 
Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam 
Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream; 
A life as common and brown and bare 
As the box of earth in the window there; 
Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom 
Of a perfect soul in that narrow room; 
Pure as the snowy leaves that fold 
Over the flower's heart of gold. 

1875. 



THE WIND OF SORROW 317 



THE WIND OF SORROW 

The fire of love was burning, yet so low 

That in the peaceful dark it made no rays, 
And in the light of perfect-placid days 

The ashes hid the smouldering embers' glow. 

Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw 

New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze: 
In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways 

We missed the radiant heat of long ago. 

Then in the night, a night of sad alarms, 

Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears 

That drove us trembling to each other's arms, 
Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears 

Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came, 

And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame. 



318 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



HIDE AND SEEK 

I 

All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, 
All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the hill; 
Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of June, 
Hark, a little hunter's voice, running with a tune. 

"Hide and seek! 

"When I speak, 

"You must answer me: 

"Call again, 

"Merry men, 
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!" 

Now I hear his footsteps rustling in the grass: 
Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass? 
Just a low, soft whistle, — quick the hunter turns, 
Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns. 

"Hold him fast, 

"Caught at last! 

"Now you're it, you see. 

"Hide your eye, 

"Till I cry, 
"Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!" 



HIDE AND SEEK 319 



II 



Long ago he left me, long and long ago; 
Now I wander thro' the world, seeking high and low. 
Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place, — 
If I could but hear his voice, soon I'd see his face! 

Far away, 

Many a day, 

Where can Barney be? 

Answer, dear, 

Don't you hear? 
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee! 

Birds that every spring-time sung him full of joy, 
Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy. 
Somewhere he is waiting till my steps come nigh; 
Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die. 

Heart, be glad, 

The little lad 

Will call again to thee: 

11 Father dear, 

"Heaven is here, 
" Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!" 



3 2o SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN 

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark 

Makes its mark 
On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves 

Over fallen leaves; 
Then my olden garden, where the golden soil 

Through the toil 
Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep, 

Whispers in its sleep. 

'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox, 

Where the box 
Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks, 

There's a voice that talks 
Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here 

Year by year, — 
And the dreams that brightened all the labouring hours, 

Fading as the flowers. 

Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief; 

But relief 
For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow 

From the Long-Ago, 



AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN 321 

When I think of other lives that learned, like mine, 

To resign, 
And remember that the sadness of the fall 

Comes alike to all. 

What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs! 

And what prayers 
For the silent strength that nerves us to endure 

Things we cannot cure! 
Pacing up and down the garden where they paced, 

I have traced 
All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find 

Comfort in my mind. 

Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear: 

Yet how near 
Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face, 

Of the human race! 
Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart, — 

Not apart! 
They who know the sorrows other lives have known 

Never walk alone. 
October, 1903 



322 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



THE MESSAGE 

Waking from tender sleep, 

My neighbour's little child 
Put out his baby hand to me, 

Looked in my face, and smiled. 

It seems as if he came 

Home from a happy land, 
To bring a message to my heart 

And make me understand. 

Somewhere, among bright dreams, 
A child that once was mine 

Has whispered wordless love to him, 
And given him a sign. 

Comfort of kindly speech, 

And counsel of the wise, 
Have helped me less than what I read 

In those deep-smiling eyes. 

Sleep sweetly, little friend, 
And dream again of heaven: 

With double love I kiss your hand, — 
Your message has been given. 

November, 1903. 



DULCIS MEMORIA 323 



DULCIS MEMORIA 

Long, long ago I heard a little song, 
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) 

So lowly, slowly wound the tune along, 
That far into my heart it found the way: 

A melody consoling and endearing; 

And now, in silent hours, I'm often hearing 
The small, sweet song that does not die away. 

Long, long ago I saw a little flower — 
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) 

So fair of face and fragrant for an hour, 
That something dear to me it seemed to say, — 

A wordless joy that blossomed into being; 

And now, in winter days, I'm often seeing 
The friendly flower that does not fade away. 

Long, long ago we had a little child, — 
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?) 

Into his mother's eyes and mine he smiled 

Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay. 

An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him; 

Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him — 
Our little child who does not go away. 



3 2 4 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear — 
(It was not long ago, but yesterday,) 

So little and so helpless and so dear — 
Let not the song be lost, the flower decay! 

His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping: 

The smallest things are safest in thy keeping, — 
Sweet memory, keep our child with us alway. 

November, 1903. 



THE WINDOW 325 



THE WINDOW 

All night long, by a distant bell 

The passing hours were notched 
On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell; 

And the spark of life I watched 
In her face was glowing, or fading, — who could tell ? — 
And the open window of the room, 

With a flare of yellow light, 
Was peering out into the gloom, 
Like an eye that searched the night. 

Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and why do 
you peer? 

"I see that the garden is crowded with creeping forms of fear: 

Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, wave in the night- 
wind's breath, 

And low in the leafy laurels the lurking shadow of death." 

Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird 

Told of the passing away 
Of the dark, — and my darling may have heard; 

For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray 
Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word, 



326 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

Till the splendour born in the east outburned 
The yellow lamplight, pale and thin, 

And the open window slowly turned 
To the eye of the morning, looking in. 

Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that makes 

you so bright? 
"I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and white: 
With the rose of life on her lips, the pulse of life in her 

breast, 
And the arms of God around her, she quietly takes her rest." 
Neuilly, June, 1909. 



PEACE 327 



PEACE 

With eager heart and will on fire, 
I strove to win my great desire. 
"Peace shall be mine," I said; but life 
Grew bitter in the barren strife. 

My soul was weary, and my pride 
Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried, 
" God grant me peace or I must die;" 
The dumb stars glittered no reply. 

Broken at last, I bowed my head, 
Forgetting all myself, and said, 
" Whatever comes, His will be done;" 
And in that moment peace was won. 



328 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



THE BARGAIN 

What shall I give for thee, 
Thou Pearl of greatest price? 

For all the treasures I possess 
Would not suffice. 

I give my store of gold; 

It is but earthly dross: 
But thou wilt make me rich, beyond 

All fear of loss. 

Mine honours I resign; 

They are but small at best: 
Thou like a royal star wilt shine 

Upon my breast. 

My worldly joys I give, 

The flowers with which I played; 
Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair, 

Shall never fade. 

Dear Lord, is that enough? 

Nay, not a thousandth part. 
Well, then, I have but one thing more: 

Take Thou my heart. 



BITTER-SWEET 329 



BITTER-SWEET 

Just to give up, and trust 
All to a Fate unknown, 
Plodding along life's road in the dust, 
Bounded by walls of stone; 
Never to have a heart at peace ; 
Never to see when care will cease; 
Just to be still when sorrows fall — 
This is the bitterest lesson of all. 

Just to give up, and rest 
All on a Love secure, 
Out of a world that's hard at the best, 
Looking to heaven as sure; 
Ever to hope, through cloud and fear, 
In darkest night, that the dawn is near; 
Just to wait at the Master's feet — 
Surely, now, the bitter is sweet. 



33o SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



TO THE CHILD JESUS 
I 

THE NATIVITY 

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, 
A happy human child, among the homes of men, 
The age of doubt would pass, — the vision of Thy face 
Would silently restore the childhood of the race. 

II 

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT 

Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger, 

Exiled from heaven by love at thy birth, 
Exiled again from thy rest in the manger, 

A fugitive child 'mid the perils of earth, — 
Cheer with thy fellowship all who are weary, 

Wandering far from the land that they love; 
Guide every heart that is homeless and dreary, 

Safe to its home in thy presence above. 



SONG OF A PILGRIM-SOUL 331 



SONG OF A PILGRIM-SOUL 

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! 
March swiftly on. Yet err not from the way 
Where all the nobly wise of old have {rod, — 
The path of faith, made by the sons of God. 

Follow the marks that they have set beside 
The narrow, cloud-swept track, to be thy guide: 
Follow, and honour what the past has gained, 
And forward still, that more may be attained. 

Something to learn, and something to forget: 
Hold fast the good, and seek the better yet: 
Press on, and prove the pilgrim-hope of youth : 
The Creeds are milestones on the road to Truth. 
1892 



332 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

HYMN OF JOY 

To the Music of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony 

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, 

God of glory, Lord of love; 
Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, 

Praising Thee their sun above. 
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; 

Drive the dark of doubt away; 
Giver of immortal gladness, 

Fill us with the light of day! 

All Thy works with joy surround Thee, 

Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays, 
Stars and angels sing around Thee, 

Centre of unbroken praise: 
Field and forest, vale and mountain, 

Blooming meadow, flashing sea, 
Chanting bird and flowing fountain, 

Call us to rejoice in Thee. 

Thou art giving and forgiving, 
Ever blessing, ever blest, 

Well-spring of the joy of living, 
Ocean-depth of happy rest! 



HYMN OF JOY 333 

Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, — 

All who live in love are Thine: 
Teach us how to love each other, 

Lift us to the Joy Divine. 

Mortals join the mighty chorus, 

Which the morning stars began; 
Father-love is reigning o'er us, 

Brother-love binds man to man. 
Ever singing march we onward, 

Victors in the midst of strife; 
Joyful music lifts us sunward 

In the triumph song of life. 
1908 



334 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 



ODE TO PEACE 



IN EXCELSIS 

Two dwellings, Peace, are thine. 

One is the mountain-height, 
Uplifted in the loneliness of light 

Beyond the realm of shadows, — fine, 
And far, and clear, — where advent of the night 
Means only glorious nearness of the stars, 
And dawn unhindered breaks above the bars 
That long the lower world in twilight keep. 
Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep, 
For all thy cares and fears have dropped away; 
The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day, 
Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars, 

In vain expense of passion, pass 
Before thy sight like visions in a glass, — 
Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep 

Across the sea and leave no trace 
Of trouble on that immemorial face, — 
So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight 
The wounds men give, the things for which they 
fight! 



ODE TO PEACE 335 

Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep, — 

A lichen clinging to the rock. 
There sails a fleet upon the deep, — 

A wandering flock 
Of snow-winged gulls. And yonder, in the plain, 

A marble palace shines, — a grain 

Of mica glittering in the rain. 

Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled 

By voiceless winds: and far between 
The rolling clouds, new shores and peaks are seen, 

In shimmering robes of green and gold, 
And faint aerial hue 
That silent fades into the silent blue. 

Thou, from thy mountain-hold, 
All day in tranquil wisdom looking down 
On distant scenes of human toil and strife, 
All night, with eyes aware of loftier life 
Uplifted to the sky where stars are sown, 
Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white 
Unto the harvest of the sons of light, 
And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime 
The few strong souls that dare to climb 
The slippery crags, and find thee on the height. 



336 SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR 

II 

DE PROFUNDIS 

But in the depth thou hast another home, 

For hearts less daring, or more frail. 
Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale; 
And pilgrim-souls that roam 
With weary feet o'er hill and dale, 
Bearing the burden and the heat 
Of toilful days, 
Turn from the dusty ways 
To find thee in thy green and still retreat. 

Here is no vision wide outspread 
Before the lonely and exalted seat 
Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead, 
A little cottage, and a garden-nook, 

With outlooks brief and sweet 
Across the meadows, and along the brook, — 

A little stream that nothing knows 
Of the great sea to which it gladly flows, — 
A little field that bears a little wheat 
To make a portion of earth's daily bread. 
The vast cloud-armies overhead 
Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows 
Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell 
Whence comes the wind nor where it goes; 



ODE TO PEACE 337 

Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well. 

Thy daily task is done, 
And now the wages of repose are won. 
Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart, 
Sure of itself and sure of all the rest, 
Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part 
In open converse, bringing forth its best: 
And here is music, melting every chain 

Of lassitude and pain: 
And here, at last, is sleep with silent gifts, — 

Kind sleep, the tender nurse who lifts 
The soul grown weary of the waking world, 

And lays it, with its thoughts all furled, 
Its fears forgotten, and its passions still, 
On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will. 



INSCRIPTIONS, GREETINGS, AND 
EPIGRAMS 



FOR KATRINA'S SUN-DIAL 

In Her Garden of Yaddo 

Hours fly, 
Flowers die. 
New days, 
New ways, 
Pass by. 
Love stays. 



Time is 
Too Slow for those who Wait, 
Too Swift for those who Fear, 
Too Long for those who Grieve, 
Too Short for those who Rejoice; 
But for those who Love, 
Time is not. 



341 



342 INSCRIPTIONS AND GREETINGS 



FOR KATRINA'S WINDOW 
In Her Tower of Yaddo 

This is the window's message, 

In silence, to the Queen: 
"Thou hast a double kingdom 

And I am set between: 
Look out and see the glory, 

On hill and plain and sky: 
Look in and see the light of love 

That nevermore shall die!" 

L'ENVOI 

Window in the Queen's high tower, 
This shall be thy magic power! 
Shut the darkness and the doubt, 
Shut the storm and conflict, out; 
Wind and hail and snow and rain 
Dash against thee all in vain. 
Let in nothing from the night, — 
Let in every ray of light. 



FOR THE FRIENDS AT HURSTMONT 343 



FOR THE FRIENDS AT HURSTMONT 

THE HOUSE 

The cornerstone in Truth is laid, 
The guardian walls of Honour made, 
The roof of Faith is built above, 
The fire upon the hearth is Love: 
Though rains descend and loud winds call, 
This happy house shall never fall. 

THE HEARTH 

When the logs are burning free, 
Then the fire is full of glee: 
When each heart gives out its best, 
Then the talk is full of zest: 
Light your fire and never fear, 
Life was made for love and cheer. 

THE DOOR 

The lintel low enough to keep out pomp and pride: 
The threshold high enough to turn deceit aside: 
The doorband strong enough from robbers to defend: 
This door will open at a touch to welcome every friend. 



344 INSCRIPTIONS AND GREETINGS 



THE DIAL 

Time can never take 
What Time did not give; 

When your shadows have all passed, 
I shall live. 



THE SUN-DIAL AT MORVEN 

For Bayard and Helen Stockton 

Two hundred years of blessing I record 
For Morven's house, protected by the Lord: 
And still I stand among old-fashioned flowers 
To mark for Morven many sunlit hours. 



THE SUN-DIAL AT WELLS COLLEGE 345 

THE SUN-DIAL AT WELLS COLLEGE 

For the Class of 1904 

The shadow by my finger cast 
Divides the future from the past: 
Before it, sleeps the unborn hour, 
In darkness, and beyond thy power: 
Behind its unreturning line, 
The vanished hour, no longer thine: 
One hour alone is in thy hands, — 
The NOW on which the shadow stands. 
March, 1904. 



346 GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 



TO MARK TWAIN 



AT A BIRTHDAY FEAST 

With memories old and wishes new 

We crown our cups again, 

And here's to you, and here's to you 

With love that ne'er shall wane! 

And may you keep, at sixty-seven, 

The joy of earth, the hope of heaven, 

And fame well-earned, and friendship true, 

And peace that comforts every pain, 

And faith that fights the battle through, 

And all your heart's unbounded wealth, 

And all your wit, and all your health, — 

Yes, here's a hearty health to you, 

And here's to you, and here's to you, 

Long life to you, Mark Twain. 



TO MARK TWAIN 347 

n 

AT THE MEMORIAL MEETING 

We knew you well, dear Yorick of the West, 

The very soul of large and friendly jest! 

You loved and mocked the broad grotesque of things 

In this new world where all the folk are kings. 

Your breezy humour cleared the air, with sport 
Of shams that haunt the democratic court; 
For even where the sovereign people rule, 
A human monarch needs a royal fool. 

Your native drawl lent flavour to your wit; 
Your arrows lingered but they always hit; 
Homeric mirth around the circle ran, 
But left no wound upon the heart of man. 

We knew you kind in trouble, brave in pain; 
We saw your honour kept without a stain; 
We read this lesson of our Yorick's years, — 
True wisdom comes with laughter and with tears. 
November 30, 19 10. 



348 GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 



STARS AND THE SOUL 

(To Charles A. Young, Astronomer) 

"Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe: 
The starry heavens and the moral law." 
Nay, add another wonder to thy roll, — 
The living marvel of the human soul! 

Born in the dust and cradled in the dark, 
It feels the fire of an immortal spark, 
And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes, 
The splendid secret of the unconscious skies. 

For God thought Light before He spoke the word; 
The darkness understood not, though it heard: 
But man looks up to where the planets swim, 
And thinks God's thoughts of glory after Him. 

What knows the star that guides the sailor's way, 
Or lights the lover's bower with liquid ray, 
Of toil and passion, danger and distress, 
Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness? 



STARS AND THE SOUL 349 

But human hearts that suffer good and ill, 
And hold to virtue with a loyal will, 
Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife 
With star-surpassing victories of life. 

So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies, 
Devout astronomer, most humbly wise, 
For lessons brighter than the stars can give, 
And inward light that helps us all to live. 



TO JULIA MARLOWE 

(Reading Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn) 

Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede 
Of marble maidens round this urn divine: 

But when your golden voice began to read, 
The empty urn was filled with Chian wine. 



35o GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 



TO JOSEPH JEFFERSON 

May 4th, 1898. — To-day, fishing down the Swiftwater, I found Joseph 
Jefferson on a big rock in the middle of the brook, casting the fly for trout 
He said he had fished this very stream three-and-forty years ago; and 
near by, in the Paradise Valley, he wrote his famous play. — Leaf from my 
Diary. 

We met on Nature's stage, 

And May had set the scene, 
With bishop-caps standing in delicate ranks, 
And violets blossoming over the banks, 

While the brook ran full between. 

The waters rang your call, 
With frolicsome waves a-twinkle, — 

They knew you as boy, and they knew you as man, 

And every wave, as it merrily ran, 
Cried, "Enter Rip van Winkle!" 



THE MOCKIXG-BIRD 351 



THE MOCKIXG-BIRD 

In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon, 
Catching the lilt of even 7 easy time; 
But when the day departs he sings of love, — 
His own wild song beneath the listening moon. 



THE EMPTY QUATRAIN 

A flawless cup: how delicate and fine 
The flowing curve of ever}' jewelled line! 
Look, turn it up or down, 't is perfect still, — 
But holds no drop of life's heart- warming wine. 



PAX LEARXS MUSIC 
For a Sculpture by Sara Greene 

LiMBER-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock. 
Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock? 
What are you making here? '-Listen," said Pan, 



Out of a river-reed music for man 



1 >> 



352 GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 



THE VALLEY OF VAIN VERSES 

The grief that is but feigning, 
And weeps melodious tears 
Of delicate complaining 
From self-indulgent years; 
The mirth that is but madness, 
And has no inward gladness 
Beneath its laughter straining, 
To capture thoughtless ears; 

The love that is but passion 
Of amber-scented lust; 
The doubt that is but fashion; 
The faith that has no trust; 
These Thamyris disperses, 
In the Valley of Vain Verses 
Below the Mount Parnassian, — 
And they crumble into dust. 



THE SHEPHERD OF NYMPHS 353 



THE SHEPHERD OF NYMPHS 

The nymphs a shepherd took 
To guard their snowy sheep; 
He led them down along the brook, 
And guided them with pipe and crook, 
Until he fell asleep. 

But when the piping stayed, 

Across the flowery mead 
The milk-white nymphs ran out afraid: 
O Thyrsis, wake! Your flock has strayed, 

The nymphs a shepherd need. 



354 GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 



ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 

I 

STARLIGHT 

With two bright eyes, my star, my love, 
Thou lookest on the stars above: 
Ah, would that I the heaven might be 
With a million eyes to look on thee. 
Plato. 

n 

ROSELEAF 

A little while the rose, 
And after that the thorn; 
An hour of dewy morn, 
And then the glamour goes. 
Ah, love in beauty born, 
A little while the rose! 
Unknown. 



ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 355 
III 

PHOSPHOR — HESPER 

O morning star, farewell! 

My love I now must leave; 
The hours of day I slowly tell, 
And turn to her with the twilight bell, — 

O welcome, star of eve! 
Meleager. 

IV 

SEASONS 

Sweet in summer, cups of snow, 
Cooling thirsty lips aglow; 
Sweet to sailors winter-bound, 
Spring arrives with garlands crowned; 
Sweeter yet the hour that covers 
With one cloak a pair of lovers, 
Living lost in golden weather, 
While they talk of love together. 
Asckpiades. 



356 GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 

V 

THE VINE AND THE GOAT 

Although you eat me to the root, 
I yet shall bear enough of fruit 
For wine to sprinkle your dim eyes, 
When you are made a sacrifice. 
Euenus. 

VI 

THE PROFESSOR 

Seven pupils, in the class 

Of Professor Callias, 

Listen silent while he drawls, — 

Three are benches, four are walls. 

Unknown. 



ONE WORLD 357 



ONE WORLD 

" The worlds in which we live are two 
The world ( I am' and the world ( I do.'" 

The worlds in which we live at heart are one, 
The world "I am," the fruit of "I have done"; 
And underneath these worlds of flower and fruit, 
The world "I love," — the only living root. 



JOY AND DUTY 

"Joy is a Duty," — so with golden lore 
The Hebrew rabbis taught in days of yore, 
And happy human hearts heard in their speech 
Almost the highest wisdom man can reach. 

But one bright peak still rises far above, 
And there the Master stands whose name is Love, 
Saying to those whom weary tasks employ: 
"Life is divine when Duty is a Joy." 



358 GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 



THE PRISON AND THE ANGEL 

Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul; 

Love is the only angel who can bid the gates unroll; 

And when he comes to call thee, arise and follow fast; 

His way may lie through darkness, but it leads to light at last. 



THE WAY 

Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul, 
May keep the path, but will not reach the goal; 
While he who walks in love may wander far, 
But God will bring him where the Blessed are. 



LOVE AND LIGHT 359 



LOVE AND LIGHT 

There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light, 
And every kind of love makes a glory in the night. 
There is love that stirs the heart, and love that gives it rest, 
But the love that leads life upward is the noblest and the best. 



THE ARROW 

Life is an arrow — therefore you must know 
What mark to aim at, how to use the bow — 
Then draw it to the head, and let it go! 



360 GREETINGS AND EPIGRAMS 



FOUR THINGS 

Four things a man must learn to do 
If he would make his record true: 
To think without confusion clearly; 
To love his fellow-men sincerely; 
To act from honest motives purely; 
To trust in God and Heaven securely. 



THE GREAT RIVER 

"In la sua volontade e nostra pace." 

O mighty river! strong, eternal Will, 
Wherein the streams of human good and ill 
Are onward swept, conflicting, to the sea! 
The world is safe because it floats in Thee. 



WAYFARING PSALMS 



THE DISTANT ROAD 

Blessed is the man that beholdeth the face of a friend in a 

far country, 
The darkness of his heart is melted in the dawning of day 

within him, 

It is like the sound of a sweet music heard long ago and half 

forgotten: 
It is like the coming back of birds to a wood when the winter 

is ended. 

I knew not the sweetness of the fountain till I found it flowing 

in the desert, 
Nor the value of a friend till we met in a land that was 

crowded and lonely. 

The multitude of mankind had bewildered me and oppressed 

me, 
And I complained to God, Why hast thou made the world 

so wide? 

But when my friend came the wideness of the world had no 

more terror, 
Because we were glad together among men to whom we were 

strangers. 

363 



364 WAYFARING PSALMS 

It seerned as if I had been reading a book in a foreign 

language, 
And suddenly I came upon a page written in the tongue of 

my childhood: 

This was the gentle heart of my friend who quietly under- 
stood me, 

The open and loving heart whose meaning was clear without 
a word. 

thou great Companion who carest for all thy pilgrims 

and strangers, 

1 thank thee heartily for the comfort of a comrade on the 

distant road. 



THE WELCOME TENT 365 



THE WELCOME TENT 

This is the thanksgiving of the weary, 
The song of him that is ready to rest. 

It is good to be glad when the day is declining, 
And the setting of the sun is like a word of peace. 

The stars look kindly on the close of a journey, 

And the tent says welcome when the day's march is done. 

For now is the time of the laying down of burdens, 

And the cool hour cometh to them that have borne the heat. 

I have rejoiced greatly in labour and adventure; 

My heart hath been enlarged in the spending of my strength. 

Now it is all gone, yet I am not impoverished, 
For thus only I inherit the treasure of repose. 

Blessed be the Lord that teacheth my fingers to loosen, 
And cooleth my feet with water after the dust of the way. 

Blessed be the Lord that giveth me hunger at nightfall, 
And filleth my evening cup with the wine of good cheer. 



366 WAYFARING PSALMS 

Blessed be the Lord that maketh me happy to be quiet, 
Even as a child that cometh softly to his mother's lap. 

O God, thy strength is never worn away with labour: 

But it is good for us to be weary and receive thy gift of rest. 



THE GREAT CITIES 367 



THE GREAT CITIES 

How wonderful are the cities that man hath builded: 
Their walls are compacted of heavy stones, 
And their lofty towers rise above the tree-tops. 

Rome, Jerusalem, Cairo, Damascus, — 
Venice, Constantinople, Moscow, Pekin, — 
London, New York, Berlin, Paris, Vienna, — 

These are the names of mighty enchantments, 
They have called to the ends of the earth, 
They have secretly summoned a host of servants. 

They shine from far sitting beside great waters, 
They are proudly enthroned upon high hills, 
They spread out their splendour along the rivers. 

Yet are they all the work of small patient ringers, 

Their strength is in the hand of man, 

He hath woven his flesh and blood into their glory. 

The cities are scattered over the world like ant-hills, 
Every one of them is full of trouble and toil, 
And their makers run to and fro within them. 



368 WAYFARING PSALMS 

Abundance of riches is laid up in their treasuries, 

But they are tormented with the fear of want, 

The cry of the poor in their streets is exceeding bitter. 

Their inhabitants are driven by blind perturbations, 

They whirl sadly in the fever of haste, 

Seeking they know not what, they pursue it fiercely. 

The air is heavy-laden with their breathing, 

The sound of their coming and going is never still, 

Even in the night I hear them whispering and crying. 

Beside every ant-hill I behold a monster crouching: 

This is the ant-lion Death, 

He thrusteth forth his tongue and the people perish. 

O God of wisdom thou hast made the country: 
Why hast thou suffered man to make the town? 

Then God answered, Surely I am the maker of man: 
And in the heart of man I have set the city. 



THE FRIENDLY TREES 369 



THE FRIENDLY TREES 

I will sing of the bounty of the big trees, 

They are the green tents of the Almighty, 

He hath set them up for comfort and for shelter. 

Their cords hath he knotted in the earth, 
He hath driven their stakes securely, 
Their roots take hold of the rocks like iron. 

He sendeth into their bodies the sap of life, 
They lift themselves lightly toward the heavens. 
They rejoice in the broadening of their branches. 

Their leaves drink in the sunlight and the air, 
They talk softly together when the breeze bloweth, 
Their shadow in the noon-day is full of coolness. 

The tall palm-trees of the plain are rich in fruit, 

While the fruit ripeneth the flower unfoldeth, 

The beauty of their crown is renewed on high for ever. 

The cedars of Lebanon are fed by the snow, 

Afar on the mountain they grow like giants, 

In their layers of shade a thousand years are sighing 



37o WAYFARING PSALMS 

How fair are the trees that befriend the home of man, 

The oak, and the terebinth, and the sycamore, 

The broad-leaved fig-tree and the delicate silvery olive. 

In them the Lord is loving to his little birds, 
The linnets and the finches and the nightingales, 
They people his pavilions with nests and with music. 

The cattle also are very glad of a great tree, 

They chew the cud beneath it while the sun is burning, 

And there the panting sheep lie down around their shepherd 

He that planteth a tree is a servant of God, 
He provideth a kindness for many generations, 
And faces that he hath not seen shall bless him. 

Lord, when my spirit shall return to thee, 

At the foot of a friendly tree let my body be buried, 

That this dust may rise and rejoice among the branches. 



THE BROKEN SWORD 371 



THE BROKEN SWORD 

Mine enemies have prevailed against me, O God: 
Thou hast led me deep into their ambush. 

They surround me with a hedge of spears, 
And the sword in my hand is broken. 

My friends also have forsaken my side: 
From a safe place they look upon me with pity. 

My heart is like water poured upon the ground, 
And I have come alone to the place of surrender. 

To thee, to thee only will I give up my sword, — 
The sword which was broken in thy service. 

Thou hast required me to suffer for thy cause: 
In my defeat thy will is victorious. 

O my King, show me thy face shining in the dark, 
While I drink the loving-cup of death to thy glory. 



372 WAYFARING PSALMS 



THE UNSEEN ALTAR 

Man the maker of cities is also a builder of altars, 
He setteth tables for the gods among his habitations. 

He bringeth the beauty of the rocks to enrich them: 
Marble and alabaster, porphyry, jade and jasper. 

He cometh with costly gifts to offer an oblation, 
And with the fairest of his flock to purchase favour. 

Around the many altars I hear strange music arising, 
Loud lamentations and shouting and singing and wailing. 

I perceive also the pain and terror of their sacrifices, 
And the tears and the blood staining the white marble. 

O my God, these are the altars of ignorance: 

They are built by thy children who do not know thee. 

Surely thou wilt have pity upon them and teach them: 
^iast thou not prepared for them a table of peace? 

*n the Lord mercifully sent his angel forth to lead me, 
I came through the courts of the temple to the holy of 
holies. 



THE UNSEEN ALTAR 



373 



Here the multitudes are kneeling in the silence of the spirit, 
They are kneeling at the unseen altar of the lowly heart. 

Here is plentiful forgiveness for the souls that are forgiving, 
And the benediction falleth upon all who pray in love. 

Surely this is the altar where the penitent find pardon: 
And the priest who stands beside it is the Christ, the Son of God. 



374 WAYFARING PSALMS 



THE PATHWAY OF RIVERS 

The rivers of God are full of water, 

They are wonderful in the renewal of their strength, 

He poureth them out from a hidden fountain. 

They are born among the hills in the high places, 

Their cradle is in the bosom of the rocks, 

The mountain is their mother 'and the forest is their father. 

They are nourished among the long grasses, 
They receive the tribute of a thousand springs, 
The rain and the snow provide their inheritance. 

They are glad to be gone from their birthplace, 
With a joyful noise they hasten away, 
They are going for ever and never departed. 

Yet the courses of the rivers are all appointed: 

They roar loudly but they follow the road, 

For the finger of God hath marked their pathway. 

'he rivers of Damascus rejoice among their gardens: 
he great river of Egypt is proud of his ships: 
\e Jordan is lost in the Lake of Bitterness. 



THE PATHWAY OF RIVERS 375 

Surely the Lord guideth them every one in his wisdom, 
In the end he gathereth all their drops on high, 
And sendeth them forth again in the clouds of mercy. 

O my God, my life floweth away like a river: 
Guide me, I beseech thee, in a pathway of good: 
Let me run in blessing to my rest in thee. 



376 WAYFARING PSALMS 



THE GLORY OF RUINS 

The lizard rested on the rock while I sat among the ruins, 
And the pride of man was like a vision of the night. 

Lo, the lords of the city have disappeared into darkness, 
The ancient wilderness hath swallowed up all their work. 

There is nothing left of the city but a heap of fragments; 
The bones of a vessel broken by the storm. 

Behold the waves of the desert wait hungrily for man's dwell- 
ings, 
And the tides of desolation return upon his toil. 

All that he hath painfully built up is shaken down in a moment, 
The memory of his glory is buried beneath the billows of sand. 

Then a voice said, Look again upon the ruins, 
These broken arches have taught generations to build. 

Moreover the name of this city shall be remembered, 
For here a poor man spoke a word that shall not die. 

This is the glory that is stronger than the desert; 
God hath given eternity to the thought of man. 



THE TRIBE OF THE HELPERS 377 



THE TRIBE OF THE HELPERS 

The ways of the world are full of haste and turmoil: 
I will sing of the tribe of the helpers who travel in peace. 

He that turneth from the road to rescue another, 
Turneth toward his goal: 

He shall arrive in time by the foot-path of mercy, 
God will be his guide. 

He that taketh up the burden of the fainting, 
Lighteneth his own load: 

The Almighty will put his arms underneath him, 
He shall lean upon the Lord. 

He that speaketh comfortable words to mourners, 
Healeth his own hurt: 

In the time of grief they will come to his remembrance, 
God will use them for balm. 

He that careth for a wounded brother, 
Watch eth not alone: 

There are three in the darkness together, 
And the third is the Lord. 

Blessed is the way of the helpers, 
The companions of the Christ. 



378 WAYFARING PSALMS 



THE GOOD TEACHER 

The Lord is my teacher, 
I shall not lose the way. 

He leadeth me in the lowly path of learning, 
He prepareth a lesson for me every day; 
He bringeth me to the clear fountains of instruction, 
Little by little he showeth me the beauty of truth. 

The world is a great book that he hath written, 
He turneth the leaves for me slowly; 
They are all inscribed with images and letters, 
He poureth light on the pictures and the words. 

He taketh me by the hand to the hill-top of vision, 
And my soul is glad when I perceive his meaning; 
In the valley also he walketh beside me, 
In the dark places he whispereth to my heart. 

Even though my lesson be hard it is not hopeless, 
For the Lord is patient with his slow scholar; 
He will wait awhile for my weakness, 
And help me to read the truth through tears. 



THE CAMP-FIRES OF MY FRIEND 379 



THE CAMP-FIRES OF MY FRIEND 

Thou hast taken me into thy tent of the world, O God, 
Beneath thy blue canopy I have found shelter, 
Therefore thou wilt not deny me the right of a guest. 

Naked and poor I arrived at thy door before sunset: 
Thou hast refreshed me with beautiful bowls of milk, 
As a great chief thou hast set forth food in abundance. 

I have loved the daily delights of thy dwelling, 
Thy moon and thy stars have lighted me to my bed, 
In the morning I have made merry with thy servants. 

Surely thou wilt not send me away in the darkness? 
There the enemy Death is lying in wait for my soul: 
Thou art the host of my life and I claim thy protection. 

Then the Lord of the tent of the world made answer: 

The right of a guest endureth for a certain time, 

After three days and three nights cometh the day of departure. 

Yet hearken to me since thou fearest to go in the dark: 

I will make with thee a new covenant of hospitality, 

Behold I will come unto thee as a stranger and be thy guest. 



380 WAYFARING PSALMS 

Poor and needy will I come that thou mayest entertain me, 
Meek and lowly will I come that thou mayest find a friend, 
With mercy and with truth will I come to give thee comfort. 

Therefore open thy heart to me and bid me welcome, 

In this tent of the world I will be thy brother of the bread, 

And when thou farest forth I will be thy companion for ever. 

Then my soul rested in the word of the Lord: 

And I saw that the curtains of the world were shaken, 

But I looked beyond them to the stars, 

The camp-fires of my Eternal Friend. 



THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 

DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Benhadad: 

Rezon: 

Saballidin: 

Hazael \ 

izdubhar v 

Rakhaz ) 

Shumakim: 

Elisha: 

NAAMAN: 

RUAHMAH: 

Tsarpi: 

Khamma 

NUBTA 

Soldiers, Servants, Citizens, etc., etc. 
Scene: Damascus and the Mountains of Samaria. 
Time: 850 B. C. 



King of Damascus. 

High Priest of the House of Rimmon. 

A Noble. 

Courtiers. 

The King's Fool. 

Prophet of Israel. 

Captain of the Armies of Damascus. 

A Captive Maid of Israel. 

Wife to Naaman. 

Attendants of Tsarpi. 



382 



ACT I 

Scene I 

Night, in the garden of Naaman at Damascus. At the left the 
palace, with softly gleaming lights and music coming from the 
open latticed windows. The garden is full of oleanders, roses, 
pomegranates, abundance of crimson flowers; the air is heavy 
with their fragrance: a fountain at the right is plashing gently: 
behind it is an arbour covered with vines. Near the centre of 
the garden stands a small, hideous image of the god Rimmon. 
Beyond the arbour rises the lofty square tower of the House of 
Rimmon, which casts a shadow from the moon across the gar- 
den. The background is a wide, hilly landscape, with the 
snow-clad summits of Mount Hermon in the distance. Enter 
by the palace door, the lady Tsarpi, robed in red and gold, 
and followed by her maids, Khamma and Nubta. She re- 
mains on the terrace: they go down into the garden, looking 
about, and returning to her. 

Khamma: 

There's no one here; the garden is asleep. 
Nubta: 

The flowers are nodding, all the birds abed, — 

Nothing awake except the watchful stars! 
383 



384 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [acti.sc.i 

Khamma: 

The stars are sentinels discreet and mute: 
How many things they know and never tell! 

Tsarpi: [Impatiently.] 

Unlike the stars, how many things you tell 

And do not know! When comes your master home? 

Nubta: 

Lady, his armour-bearer brought us word, — 
At moonset, not before. 

Tsarpi: 

He haunts the camp 
And leaves me much alone; yet I can pass 
The time of absence not unhappily,' 
If I but know the time of his return. 
An hour of moonlight yet! Khamma, my mirror! 
These curls are ill arranged, this veil too low, — 
So, — that is better, careless maids! Withdraw, — 
But bring me word if Naaman appears! 

Khamma: 

Mistress, have no concern; for when we hear 
The clatter of his horse along the street, 
We'll run this way and lead your dancers down 
With song and laughter, — you shall know in time. 

[Exeunt Khamma and Nubta laughing, Tsarpi 
descends the steps.] 



act i, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 385 

Tsarpi: 

My guest is late; but he will surely come! 
The man who burns to drain the cup of love, — 
The priest whose greed of glory never fails, — 
Both, both have need of me, and he will come. 
And I, — what do I need? Why everything 
That helps my beauty to a higher throne; 
All that a priest can promise, all a man 
Can give, and all a god bestow, I need: 
This may a woman win, and this will I. 

[Enter Rezon quietly from the shadow of the trees. 
He stands behind Tsarpi and listens, smiling, to her 
last words. Then he drops his mantle of leopard- 
skin, and lifts his high priest's rod of bronze, shaped 
at one end like a star.] 
Rezon: 

Tsarpi! 
Tsarpi: [Bowing low before him.] 

The mistress of the house of Naaman 
Salutes the master of the House of Rimmon. 
Rezon : 

Rimmon receives you with his star of peace, 
For you were once a handmaid of his altar. 

[He lowers the star-point of the rod, which glows for a 
moment with rosy light above her head.] 
And now the keeper of his temple asks 
The welcome of the woman for the man. 



/ 



386 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [acti,sc.i 

Tsarpi: [Giving him her hand, but holding off his embrace.] 
No more, — till I have heard what brings you here 
By night, within the garden of the one 
Who scorns you most and fears you least in all 
Damascus 

Rezon: 

Trust me, I repay his scorn 

With double hatred, — Naaman, the man 

Who stands against the nobles and the priests, 

This powerful fool, this impious devotee 

Of liberty, who loves the people more 

Then he reveres the city's ancient god: 

This frigid husband who sets you below 

His dream of duty to a horde of slaves: 

This man I hate, and I will humble him. 
Tsarpi: 

I think I hate him too. He stands apart 

From me, ev'n while he holds me in his arms, 

By something that I cannot understand. 

He swears he loves his wife next to his honour! 

Next? That's too low! I will be first or nothing. 
Rezon: 

With me you are the first, the absolute! 

When you and I have triumphed you shall reign; 

And you and I will bring this hero down. 
Tsarpi: 

But how? For he is strong. 



act i, Am] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 387 

Rezon^ 

By this, the hand 

Of ^Tsarpi; and by this, the rod of Rimmon. 
Tsarpi: 

Your plan? 

Rezon: 

You know the host of Nineveh 
Is marching now against us. Envoys come 
To bid us yield before a hopeless war. 
Our king is weak: the nobles, being rich, 
Would purchase peace to make them richer still: 
Only the people and the soldiers, led 
By Naaman, would fight for liberty. 
Blind fools! To-day the envoys came to me, 
And talked with me in secret. Promises, 
Great promises ! For every noble house 
That urges peace, a noble recompense: 
The King, submissive, kept in royal state 
And splendour: most of all, honour and wealth 
Shall crown the House of Rimmon, and his priest, — 
Yea, and his priestess! For we two will rise 
Upon the city's fall. The common folk 
Shall suffer; Naaman shall sink with them 
In wreck; but I shall rise, and you shall rise 
Above me! You shall climb, through incense-smoke, 
And days of pomp, and nights of revelry, 



388 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [acti,sc.i 

Unto the topmost room in Rimmon's tower, 

The secret, lofty room, the couch of bliss, 

And the divine embraces of the god. 
Tsarpi: [Throwing out her arms in exultation.] 

All, all I wish! What must I do for this? 
Rezon: 

Turn Naaman away from thoughts of war. 
Tsarpi: 

But if I fail? His will is proof against 

The lure of kisses and the wile of tears. 
Rezon: 

Whe e woman fails, woman and priest succeed. 

Before the King decides he must consult 

The oracle of Rimmon. This my hands 

Prepare, — and you shall read the signs prepared 

In words of fear to melt the brazen heart 

Of Naaman. 

Tsarpi: 

But if it flame instead ? 

Rezon: 

I know a way to quench that flame. The cup, 
The parting cup your hand shall give to him! 
What if the curse of Rimmon should infect 
That sacred wine with poison, secretly 
To work within his veins, week after week 
Corrupting all the currents of his blood, 



act i, sci] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 389 

Dimming his eyes, wasting his flesh ? What then ? 

Would he prevail in war? Would he come back 

To glory, or to shame? What think you? 

Tsarpi: 

I?— 

I do not think; I only do my part. 

But can the gods bless this ? 

Rezon: 

The gods can bless 

Whatever they decree; their will makes right; 

And this is for the glory of the House 

Of Rimmon, — and for thee, my queen. Come, come! 

The night grows dark: we'll perfect our alliance. 

[Rezon draws her with him, embracing her, through 
the shadows of the garden. Ruahmah, who has 
been sleeping in the arbour, has been awakened dur- 
ing the dialogue, and has been dimly visible in her 
white dress, behind the vines. She parts them and 
comes out, pushing back her long, dark hair from 
her temples.] 
Ruahmah: 

What have I heard? O God, what shame is this 

Plotted beneath Thy pure and silent stars! 

Was it for this that I was brought away 

A captive from the hills of Israel 

To serve the heathen in a land of lies ? 

Ah, treacherous, shameful priest! Ah, shameless wife 



390 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. i 

Of one too noble to suspect thy guilt! 

The very greatness of his generous heart 

Betrays him to their hands. What can I do! 

Nothing, — a slave, — hated and mocked by all 

My fellow-slaves! O bitter prison-life! 

I smother in this black, betraying air 

Of lust and luxury; I faint beneath 

The shadow of this House of Rimmon. God 

Have mercy! Lead me out to Israel. 

To Israel! 

[Music and laughter heard within the palace. The 

doors fly open and a flood of men and women, dancers, 

players, flushed with wine, dishevelled, pour down 

the steps, Khamma and Nubta with them. They 

crown the image with roses and dance around it. 

Ruahmah is discovered crouching beside the arbour. 

They drag her out beside the image.] 

Nubta: 

Look! Here's the Hebrew maid, — 

She's homesick; let us comfort her! 
Khamma: [They put their arms around her.] 

Yes, dancing is the cure for homesickness. 

We'll make her dance. 
Ruahmah: [She slips away.] 

I pray yon, let me go! 

I cannot dance, I do not know your measures. 



act i, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 391 

Khamma: 

Then sing for us, — a song of Israel! 
Ruahmah: 

How can I sing the songs of Israel 
In this strange country? O my heart would break! 
A Servant: 

A stubborn and unfriendly maid! We'll whip her. 

[They circle around her, striking her with rose-branches; 
she sinks to her knees, covering her face with her bare 
arms, which bleed, .] 
Nubta: 

Look, look! She kneels to Rimmon, she is tamed. 
Ruahmah: [Springing up and lifting her arms.] 
Nay, not to this dumb idol, but to Him 
Who made Orion and the seven stars! 
All: 

She raves, — she mocks at Rimmon! Punish her! 
The fountain! Wash her blasphemy away! 

[They push her toward the fountain, laughing and 
shouting. In the open door of the palace Naaman 
appears, dressed in blue and silver, bareheaded and 
unarmed. He comes to the top of the steps and stands 
for a moment, astonished and angry.] 
Naaman: 

Silence! What drunken rout is this? Begone, 



392 THE HOUSE OF SIMMON [acti,sc.i 

Ye barking dogs and mewing cats! Out, all! 
Poor child, what have they done to thee? 

[Exeunt all except Ruahmah, who stands with her face 
covered by her hands. Naaman comes to her, laying 
his hand on her shoulder.] 
Ruahmah: [Looking up in his face.] 

Nothing, 
My lord and master! They have harmed me not. 
Naaman: [Touching her arm.] 
Dost call this nothing ? 

Ruahmah: 

Since my lord is come! 
Naaman: 

I do not know thy face, — who art thou, child ? 
Ruahmah: 

The handmaid of thy wife. 

Naaman: 

Whence comest thou? 

Thy voice is like thy mistress, but thy looks 

Have something foreign. Tell thy name, thy land. 
Ruahmah: 

Ruahmah is my name, a captive maid, 

The daughter of a prince in Israel, — 

Where once, in olden days, I saw my lord 

Ride through our highlands, when Samaria 

Was allied with Damascus to defeat 

Our common foe. 



act i, sci] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 393 

Naaman: 

And thou rememberest this? 

Ruahmah: 

As clear as yesterday! Master, I saw 

Thee riding on a snow-white horse beside 

Our king; and all we joyful little maids 

Strewed boughs of palm along the victors' way; 

For you had driven out the enemy, 

Broken ; and both our lands were friends and free. 

Naaman: [Sadly.] 

Well, they are past, those noble days! The days 

When nations would imperil all to keep 

Their liberties, are only memories now. 

The common cause is lost, — and thou art brought, 

The captive of some mercenary raid, 

Some skirmish of a gold-begotten war, 

To serve within my house. Dost thou fare well ? 

Ruahmah: 

Master, thou seest. 

Naaman: 

Yes, I see! My child, 
Why do they hate thee so ? 

Ruahmah: 

I do not know, 
Unless because I will not bow to Rimmon. 



394 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. i 

Naaman: 

Thou needest not. I fear he is a god 

Who pities not his people, will not save. 

My heart is sick with doubt of him. But thou 

Shalt hold thy faith, — I care not what it is, — 

Worship thy god; but keep thy spirit free. 

[He takes the amulet from his neck and gives it to her.} 

Here, take this chain and wear it with my seal, 

None shall molest the maid who carries this. 

Thou hast found favour in thy master's eyes; 

Hast thou no other gift to ask of me? 
Ruahmah: [Earnestly.] 

My lord, I do entreat thee not to go 

To-morrow to the council. Seek the King 

And speak with him in secret; but avoid 

The audience-hall. 
Naaman: 

Why, what is this ? Thy wits 

Are wandering. My honour is engaged 

To speak for war, to lead in war against 

The Assyrian Bull and save Damascus. 
Ruahmah: [With confused earnestness.] 

Then, lord, if thou must go, I pray thee speak, — 

I know not how, — but so that all must hear. 

With magic of unanswerable words 

Persuade thy foes. Yet watch, — beware, — 



act i, sc i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 395 

Naaman: 

Of what? 

Ruahmah: [Turning aside.] 

I am entangled in my speech, — no light, — 
How shall I tell him? He will not believe. 
O my dear lord, thine enemies are they 
Of thine own house. I pray thee to beware, — 
Beware, — of Rimmon! 

Naaman: 

Child, thy words are wild; 
Thy troubles have bewildered all thy brain. 
Go, now, and fret no more; but sleep, and dream 
Of Israel ! For thou shalt see thy home 
Among the hills again. 

Ruahmah: 

Master, good-night. 
And may thy slumber be as sweet and deep 
As if thou camped at snowy Hermon's foot, 
Amid the music of his waterfalls. 
There friendly oak-trees bend their boughs above 
The weary head, pillowed on earth's kind breast, 
And unpolluted breezes lightly breathe 
A song of sleep among the murmuring leaves. 
There the big stars draw nearer, and the sun 
Looks forth serene, undimmed by city's mirk 
Or smoke of idol-temples, to behold 



396 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

The waking wonder of the wide-spread world. 
There life renews itself with every morn 
In purest joy of living. May the Lord 
Deliver thee, dear master, from the nets 
Laid for thy feet, and lead thee out, along 
The open path, beneath the open sky! 

[Exit Ruahmah: Naaman stands looking after her.] 



Scene II 

Time: The following morning. 

The audience-hall in Benhadad's palace. The sides of the hall 
are lined with lofty columns: the back opens toward the city, 
with descending steps: the House of Rimnion with its high 
tower is seen in the background. The throne is at the right in 
front: opposite is the royal door of entrance, guarded by four 
tall sentinels. Enter at the rear between the columns, Rakhaz, 
Saballidin, Hazael, Izdubhar. 
Izdubhar: [An excited old man.] 

The city is all in a turmoil. It boils like a pot of lentils. 
The people are foaming and bubbling round and round 
like beans in the pottage. 
Hazael: [^4 lean, crafty man.] 
Fear is a hot fire. 



act i, sc ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 397 

Rakhaz: [A fat, pompous man.] 

Well may they fear, for the Assyrians are not three days 

distant. They are blazing along like a waterspout 

to chop Damascus down like a pitcher of spilt milk. 

Saballidin: [Young and frank.] 

Cannot Naaman drive them back? 

Rakhaz: [Puffing and blowing.] 

Ho! Naaman? Where have you been living ? Naaman 

is a broken reed whose claws have been cut. Build no 

hopes on that foundation, for it will run away and leave 

you all adrift in the conflagration. 

Saballidin: 

He clatters like a windmill. What would he say, Hazael ? 

PIazael: 

Naaman can do nothing without the command of the King; 

a 
and the King fears to order the army to march without 

the approval of the gods. The High Priest is against it. 

The House of Rimmon is for peace with Asshur. 

Rakhaz: 

Yes, and all the nobles are for peace. We are the men 
whose wisdom lights the rudder that upholds the chariot 
of state. Would we be rich if we were not wise? Do 
we not know better than the rabble what medicine will 
silence this fire that threatens to drown us? 

Izdubhar: 

But if the Assyrians come, we shall all perish; they will 
despoil us all. 



398 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

Hazael: 

Not us, my lord, only the common people. The envoys 
have offered favourable terms to the priests, and the 
nobles, and the King. No palace, no temple, shall be 
plundered. Only the shops, and the markets, and the 
houses of the multitude shall be given up to the Bull. 
He will eat his supper from the pot of lentils, not from 
our golden plate. 
Rakhaz: 

Yes, and all who speak for peace in the council shall be 
enriched; our heads shall be crowned with seats of hon- 
our in the procession of the Assyrian king. He needs 
wise counsellors to help him guide the ship of empire 
onto the solid rock of prosperity. You must be with us, 
my lords Izdubhar and Saballidin, and let the stars of 
your wisdom roar loudly for peace. 
Izdubhar: 

He talks like a tablet read upside down, — a wild ass bray- 
ing in the wilderness. Yet there is policy in his words. 
Saballidin: 

I know not. Can a kingdom live without a people or an 
army? If we let the Bull in to sup on the lentils, will 
he not make his breakfast in our vineyards ? 

[Enter other courtiers following Shumakim, a hump- 
backed jester, in blue, green and red, a wreath of pop- 
pies around his neck and a flagon in his hand. He 
walks unsteadily, and stutters in his speech.] 



act i, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 399 

Hazael: 

Here is Shumakim, the King's fool, with his legs full of 
last night's wine. 

Shumakim: [Balancing himself in front of them and chuckling.] 
Wrong, my lords, very wrong ! This is not last night's wine, 
but a draught the King's physician gave me this morning 
for a cure. It sobers me amazingly! I know you all, 
my lords: any fool would know you. You, master, are 
a statesman; and you are a politician; and you are a 
patriot. 

Rakhaz: 

Am I a statesman ? I felt something of the kind about me. 
But what is a statesman? 

Shumakim: 

A politician that is stuffed with big words; a fat man in 
a mask; one that plays a solemn tune on a sackbut full 
o' wind. 
Hazael: 

And what is a politician? 
Shumakim: 

A statesman that has dropped his mask and cracked his 
sackbut. Men trust him for what he is, and he never 
deceives them, because he always lies. 
Izdubhar: 

Why do you call me a patriot ? 



4oo THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

Shumakim: 

Because you know what is good for you; you love your 
country as you love your pelf. You feel for the com- 
mon people, — as the wolf feels for the sheep. 
Saballidin: 

And what am I? 
Shumakim: 

A fool, master, just a plain fool; and there is hope of thee 
for that reason. Embrace me, brother, and taste this; 
but not too much, — it will intoxicate thee with sobriety. 
[The hall has been slowly filling with courtiers and 
soldiers; a crowd of people begin to come up the steps 
at the rear, where they are halt d by a chain guarded 
by servants of the palace. A bell tolls; the royal door 
is thrown open; the aged King totters across the hall 
and takes his seat on the throne with the four tall 
sentinels standing behind him. All bow down sha- 
ding their eyes with their hands.] 
Benbadad: 

The hour of royal audience is come. 

I'll hear the envoys. Are my counsellors 

At hand? Where are the priests of Rimmon's house? 

[Gongs sound. Rezon comes in from the side, followed 
by a procession of priests in black and yellow. The 
courtiers bow; the King rises; Rezon takes his stand 
on the steps of the throne at the left of the King.] 



act i, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 401 

Benhadad: 

Where is my faithful servant Naaman, 
The captain of my host ? 

[Trumpets sound from the city. The crowd on the 
steps divide; the chain is lowered; Naaman enters, 
followed by six soldiers. Tie is dressed in chain-mail 
with a silver helmet and a cloak of blue. He un- 
covers, and kneels on the steps of the throne at the 
King's right.] 
Naaman: 

My lord the King, 
The bearer of thy sword is here. 
Benhadad: [Giving Naaman his hand, and sitting down.] 

Welcome, 
My strong right arm that never me failed yet! 
I am in doubt, — but stay thou close to me 
While I decide this cause. Where are the envoys? 
Let them appear and give their message. 

[Enter the Assyrian envoys; ' one in white and the other 
in red; both with the golden BulVs head embroidered 
on their robes. They come from the right, rear, bow 
slightly before the throne, and take the centre of the 
hall.] 

White Envoy: [Stepping forward.] 

Greeting from Shalmaneser, Asshur's son, 
Who rules the world from Nineveh 



4 o2 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

Unto Benhadad, monarch in Damascus! 

The conquering Bull has led his army forth; 

The south has fallen before him, and the west 

His feet have trodden; Hamath is laid waste; 

He pauses at your gate, invincible, — 

To ofler peace. The princes of your court, 

The priests of Rimmon's house, and you, the King, 

If you pay homage to your Overlord, 

Shall rest secure, and flourish as our friends. 

Assyria sends to you this gilded yoke; 

Receive it as the sign of proffered peace. 

[He lays a yoke on the steps of the throne.] 
Benhadad: 

What of the city? Said your king no word 

Of our Damascus, and the many folk 

That do inhabit her and make her great? 

What of the soldiers who have fought for us? 
White Envoy: 

Of these my royal master did not speak. 
Benhadad: 

Strange silence! Must we give them up to him? 

Is this the price at which he offers us 

The yoke of peace? What if we do refuse? 
Red Envoy: [Stepping forward.] 

Then ruthless war! War to the uttermost. 

No quarter, no compassion, no escape! 



act i, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 403 

The Bull will gore and trample in his fury 
Nobles and priests and king, — none shall be spared! 
Before the throne we lay our second gift; 
This bloody horn, the symbol of red war. 

[He lays a long bulVs horn, stained with blood, on the 
steps of the throne.] 
White Envoy: 

Our message is delivered. We return 
Unto our master. He will wait three days 
To know your royal choice between his gifts. 
Keep which you will and send the other back. 
The red bull's horn your youngest page may bring; 
But with the yoke, best send your mightiest army! 

[The Envoys retire, amid confused murmurs of the 
people, the King silent, his head, sunken on his 
breast.] 
Benhadad: 

Proud words, a bitter message, hard to endure! 
We.are not now that force which feared no foe: 
Our old allies have left us. Can we face the Bull 
Alone, and beat him back? Give me your counsel. 

[Many speak at once, confusedly.] 
What babblement is this ? Were ye born at Babel ? 
Give me clear words and reasonable speech. 
Rakhaz: [Pompously.] 

O King, I am a reasonable man ! 

And there be some who call me very wise 



40 4 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

And prudent; but of this I will not speak, 

For I am also modest. Let me plead, 

Persuade, and reason you to choose for peace. 

This golden yoke may be a bitter draught, 

But better far to fold it in our arms, 

Than risk our cargoes in the savage horn 

Of war. Shall we imperil all our wealth, 

Our valuable lives ? Nobles are few, 

Rich men are rare, and wise men rarer still; 

The precious jewels on the tree of life, 

Wherein the common people are but bricks 

And clay and rubble. Let the city go, 

But save the corner-stones that float the ship! 

Have I not spoken well ? 
Benhadad: [Shaking his head.} 

Excellent well! 

Most eloquent! But misty in the meaning. 
Hazael: [With cold decision.] 

Then let me speak, O King, in plainer words! 

The days of independent states are past: 

The tide of empire sweeps across the earth; 

Assyria rides it with resistless power 

And thunders on to subjugate the world. 

Oppose her, and we fight with Destiny; 

Submit to her demands, and we shall ride 

With her to victory. Therefore accept 

The golden yoke, Assyria's gift of peace. 



act i, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 405 

Naaman: [Starting forward eagerly.] 

There is no peace beneath a conqueror's yoke! 

For every state that barters liberty 

To win imperial favour, shall be drained 

Of her best blood, henceforth, in endless wars 

To make the empire greater. Here's the choice, 

My King, we fight to keep our country free, 

Or else we fight forevermore to help 

Assyria bind the world as we are bound. 

I am a soldier, and I know the hell 

Of war! But I will gladly ride through hell 

To save Damascus. Master, bid me ride! 

Ten thousand chariots wait for your command; 

And twenty thousand horsemen strain the leash 

Of patience till you let them go; a throng 

Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the sea 

Chafing against a dike, roar for the onset! 

O master, let me launch your mighty host 

Against the Bull,— we'll bring him to his knees! 

[Cries of "war!" from the soldiers and the people; 
"peace!" from the courtiers and the priests. The 
King rises, turning toward Naaman, and seems 
about to speak. Rezon lifts his rod.] 
Rezon: 

Shall not the gods decide when mortals doubt? 
Rimmon is master of the city's fate; 



406 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

We read his will, by our most ancient-faith, 

In omens and in signs of mystery. 

Must we not hearken to his high commands ? 

Benhadad: [Sinking back on the throne, submissively.] 
I am the faithful son of Rimmon's House. 
Consult the oracle. But who shall read? 

Rezon: 

Tsarpi, the wife of Naaman, who served 
Within the temple in her maiden years, 
Shall be the mouth-piece of the mighty god, 
To-day's high-priestess. Bring the sacrifice! 

[Gongs and cymbals sound: enter priests carrying an 
altar on which a lamb is bound. The altar is placed 
in the centre of the hall. Tsarpi follows the priests, 
covered with a long transparent veil of black, sown 
with gold stars; Ruahmah, in white, bears her 
train. Tsarpi stands before the altar, facing it, and 
lifts her right hand holding a knife. Ruahmah 
steps back, near the throne, her hands crossed on 
her breast, her head bowed. The priests close 
in around Tsarpi and the altar. The knife is 
seen to strike downward. Gongs and cymbals 
sound: cries of "Rimmon, hear us I" The circle 
of priests opens, and Tsarpi turns slowly to face 
the King.] 



act i, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 407 

Tsarpi: [Monotonously.] 

Black is the blood of the victim, 

Rimmon is unfavourable, 

Asratu is unfavourable; 

They will not war against Asshur, 

They will make a league with the God of Nineveh. 

Evil is in store for Damascus, 

A strong enemy will lay waste the land. 

Therefore make peace with the Bull; 

Hearken to the voice of Rimmon. 

[She turns again to the altar, and the priests close in 
around her. Rezon lifts his rod toward the tower 
of the temple. A flash of lightning followed by 
thunder; smoke rises from the altar; all except Naa- 
man and Ruahmah cover their faces. The circle of 
priests opens again, and Tsarpi comes forward 
slowly, chanting.] 

Chant: 

Hear the words of Rimmon ! Thus your Maker speaketh: 
I, the god of thunder, riding on the whirlwind, 
I, the god of lightning leaping from the storm-cloud, 
I will smite with vengeance him who dares defy me ! 
He who leads Damascus into war with Asshur, 
Conquering or conquered, bears my curse upon him. 
Surely shall my arrow strike his heart in secret, 



4 o8 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

Burn his flesh with fever, turn his blood to poison, 

Brand him with corruption, drive him into darkness; 

He shall surely perish by the doom of Rimmon. 

[All are terrified and look toward Naaman, shuddering. 
Ruahmah alone seems not to heed the curse, but 
stands with her eyes fixed on Naaman.] 
Ruahmah: 

Be not afraid! There is a greater God 

Shall cover thee with His almighty wings: 

Beneath his shield and buckler shalt thou trust. 
Benhadad: 

Repent, my son, thou must not brave this curse. 
Naaman: 

My King, there is no curse as terrible 

As that which lights a bosom-fire for him 

Who gives away his honour, to prolong 

A craven life whose every breath is shame! 

If I betray the men who follow me, 

The city that has put her trust in me, 

What king can shield me from my own deep scorn 

What god release me from that self-made hell ? 

The tender mercies of Assyria 

I know; and they are cruel as creeping tigers. 

Give up Damascus, and her streets will run 

Rivers of innocent blood; the city's heart, 

That mighty, labouring heart, wounded and crushed 



act i, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 409 

Beneath the brutal hooves of the wild Bull, 

Will cry against her captain, sitting safe 

Among the nobles, in some pleasant place. 

I shall be safe, — safe from the threatened wrath 

Of unknown gods, but damned forever by 

The men I know, — that is the curse I fear. 
Benhadad: 

Speak not so high, my son. Must we not bow 

Our heads before the sovereignties of heaven ? 

The unseen rulers are Divine. 
Naaman: 

O King, 

I am unlearned in the lore of priests; 

Yet well I know that there are hidden powers 

About us, working mortal weal and woe 

Beyond the force of mortals to control. 

And if these powers appear in love and truth, 

I think they must be gods, and worship them. 

But if their secret will is manifest 

In blind decrees of sheer omnipotence, 

That punish where no fault is found, and smite 

The poor with undeserved calamity, 

And pierce the undefended in the dark 

With arrows of injustice, and foredoom 

The innocent to burn in endless pain, 

I will not call this fierce almightiness 

Divine. Though I must bear, with every man, 



4 io THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act i, sc. ii 

The burden of my life ordained, I'll keep 

My soul unterrified, and tread the path 

Of truth and honour with a steady heart! 

Have ye not heard, my lords ? The oracle 

Proclaims to me, to me alone, the doom 

Of vengeance if I lead the army out. 

"Conquered or conquering!" I grip that chance! 

Damascus free, her foes all beaten back, 

The people saved from slavery, the King 

Upheld in honour on his ancient throne, — 

O what's the cost of this? I'll gladly pay 

Whatever gods there be, whatever price 

They ask for this one victory. Give me 

This gilded sign of shame to carry back; 

I'll shake it in the face of Asshur's king, 

And break it on his teeth. 
Benhadad: [Rising.] 

Then go, my never-beaten captain, go ! 

And may the powers that hear thy solemn vow 

Forgive thy rashness for Damascus' sake, 

Prosper thy fighting, and remit thy pledge. 
Rezon: [Standing beside the altar.] 

The pledge, O King, this man must seal his pledge 

At Rimmon's altar. He must take the cup 

Of soldier-sacrament, and bind himself 

By thrice-performed libation to abide 

The fate he has invoked. 



act i, sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 411 

Naaman: [Slowly.] 

And so I vvill. 
[He comes down the steps, toward the altar, where 
Rezon is filling the cup which Tsarpi holds. 
Ruahmah throws herself before Naaman, clasping 
his knees.] 
Ruahmah: [Passionately and wildly.] 

My lord, I do beseech you, stay! There's death 
Within that cup. It is an offering 
To devils. See, the wine blazes like fire, 
It flows like blood, it is a cursed cup, 
Fulfilled of treachery and hate. 
Dear master, noble master, touch it not! 
Naaman: 

Poor maid, thy brain is still distraught. Fear not, 
But let me go! Here, treat her tenderly! 

[Gives her into the hands of Saballidin.] 
Can harm befall me from the wife who bears 
My name? I take the cup of fate from her. 
I greet the unknown powers ; [Pours libation.] 
I will perform my vow; [Again.] 
I will abide my fate; [Again.] 
I pledge my life to keep Damascus free. 
[He drains the cup, and lets it fall.] 

CURTAIN. 



ACT II 

Time: A week later. 

The fore-court of the House of Rimman. At the back the broad 
steps and double doors of the shrine: above them the tower of 
the god, its summit invisible. Enter various groups of citizens, 
talking laughing, shouting: Rakhaz, Hazael, Shumakim 
and others. 
First Citizen: 

Great news, glorious news, the Assyrians are beaten! 
Second Citizen: 

Naaman is returning, crowned with victory. Glory to our 
noble captain! 
Third Citizen: 

No, he is killed. I had it from one of the camp-followers 
who saw him fall at the head of the battle. They are 
bringing his body to bury it with honour. O sorrowful 
victory! 
Rakhaz: 

Peace, my good fellows, you are ignorant, you have not 
been rightly informed, I will misinform you. The ac- 
counts of Naaman's death are overdrawn. He was 

killed, but his life has been preserved. One of his 
412 



act ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 413 

wounds was mortal, but the other three were curable, 
and by these the physicians have saved him. 
Shumakim: [Balancing himself before Rakhaz in pretended 
admiration.] 
O wonderful! Most admirable logic! One mortal, and 
three curable, therefore he must recover as it were, by 
three to one. Rakhaz, do you know that you are a 
marvelous man? 
Rakhaz: 

Yes, I know it, but I make no boast of my knowledge. 
Shumakim: 

Too modest, for in knowing this you know more than 
any other in Damascus! 

[Enter, from the right, Saballidin in armour: from 
the left, Tsarpi with her attendants, among whom is 

RUAHMAH.] 

Hazael: 

Here is Saballidin, we'll question him; 
He was enflamed by Naaman's wild words, 
And rode with him to battle. Give us news, 
Of your great captain! Is he safe and well? 
When will he come? Or will he come at all? 
[All gather around him listening eagerly.] 

Saballidin: 

He comes but now, returning from the field 
Where he hath gained a crown of deathless fame! 



4 i4 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON iact n 

Three times he led the charge; three times he fell 
Wounded, and the Assyrians beat us back. 
Yet every wound was but a spur to urge. 
His valour onward. In the last attack 
He rode before us as the crested wave 
That leads the flood; and lo, our enemies 
Were broken like a dam of river-reeds. 
The flying King encircled by his guard 
Was lodged like driftwood on a little hill. 
Then Naaman, who led our foremost band 
Of whirlwind riders, hammered through the hedge 
Of spearmen, brandishing the golden yoke. 
"Take back this gift," he Cried; and shattered it 
On Shalmaneser's helmet. So the fight 
Dissolved in universal rout; the King, 
His chariots and his horsemen fled away: 
Our captain stood the master of the field, 
And saviour of Damascus! Now he brings, 
First to the King, report of this great triumph. 
[Shouts of joy and applause.] 
Ruahmah: [Coming close to Saballidin.] 

But what of him who won it? Fares he well? 
My mistress would receive some word of him. 

Saballidin: 

Hath she not heard ? 



act ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 415 

Ruahmah: 

But one brief message came: 
A letter saying, "We have fought and conquered," 
No word of his own person. Fares he well ? 
Saballidin: 

Alas, most ill! For he is like a man 
Consumed by some strange sickness: wasted, wan, — 
His eyes are dimmed so that he scarce can see; 
His ears are dulled; his fearless face is pale 
As one who walks to meet a certain doom 
Yet will not flinch. It is most pitiful, — 
But you shall see. 
Ruahmah: 

Yea, we shall see a man 
Who dared to face the wrath of evil powers 
Unknown, and hazard all to save his country. 
[Enter Benhadad with courtiers.] 
Benhadad: 

Where is my faithful servant Naaman, 
The captain of my host ? 
Saballidin: 

My lord, he comes. 
[Trumpet sounds. Enter company of soldiers in ar- 
mour. Then four soldiers bearing captured stand- 
ards of A sshur. Naaman follows, very pale, armour 
dinted and stained; he is blind, and guides himself 



416 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act n 

by cords from the standards on each side, but walks 
firmly. The doors of the temple open slightly, and 
Rezon appears at the top of the steps. Naaman lets 
the cords fall, and gropes his way for a few paces.] 

Naaman: [Kneeling.] 

Where is my King? 
Master, the bearer of thy sword returns. 
The golden yoke thou gavest me I broke 
On him who sent it. Asshur's Bull hath fled 
Dehorned. The standards of his host are thine! 
Damascus is all thine, at peace, and free! 

Benhadad: [Holding out his arms.] 

Thou art a mighty man of valour! Come, 
And let me fold thy courage to my heart. 

Rezon: [Lifting his rod.] 

Forbear, O King! Stand back from him, all men! 
By the great name of Rimmon I proclaim 
This man a leper! See, upon his brow, 
This little mark, the death -white seal of doom! 
That tiny spot will spread, eating his flesh, 
Gnawing his fingers bone from bone, until 
The impious heart that dared defy the gods 
Dissolves in the slow death which now begins. 
Unclean! unclean! Henceforward he is dead: 
No human hand shall touch him, and no home 
Of men shall give him shelter. He shall walk 



act ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 417 

Only with corpses of the selfsame death 

Down the long path to a forgotten tomb. 

Avoid, depart, I do adjure you all, 

Leave him to god, — the leper Naaman ! 

[All shrink back horrified. Rezon retires into the tem- 
ple; the crowd melts away, wailing: Tsarpi is 
among the first to go, followed by her attendants, ex- 
cept Ruahmah, who crouches, with her face covered, 
not far from Naaman.] 
Benhadad: [Lingering and turning back.] 

Alas, my son! O Naaman, my son! 

Why did I let thee go ? I must obey. 

Who can resist the gods ? Yet none shall take 

Thy glorious title, captain of my host! 

I will provide for thee, and thou shalt dwell 

With guards of honour in a house of mine 

Always. Damascus never shall forget 

What thou hast done! O miserable words 

Of crowned impotence! O mockery of power 

Given to kings who cannot even defend 

Their dearest from the secret wrath of heaven! 

O Naaman, my son, my son! [Exit.] 
Naaman: [Slowly, passing his hand over his eyes, and looking 
up.] 

Am I alone 

With thee, inexorable one, whose pride 



418 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act n 

Offended takes this horrible revenge ? 
I must submit my mortal flesh to thee, 
Almighty, but I will not call thee god! 
Yet thou hast found the way to wound my soul 
Most deeply through the flesh; and I must find 
The way to let my wounded soul escape! 
[Drawing his sword.] 

Come, my last friend, thou art more merciful 
Than Rimmon. Why should I endure the doom 
He sends me ? Irretrievably cut off 
From all dear intercourse of human love, 
From all the tender touch of human hands, 
From all brave comradeship with brother-men, 
With eyes that see no faces through this dark, 
With ears that hear all voices far away, 
Why should I cling to misery, and grope 
My long, long way from pain to pain, alone ? 

Ruahmah: [At his feet.] 

Nay, not alone, dear lord, for I am here; 

And I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee! 
Naaman: 

What voice is that? The silence of my tomb 

Is broken by a ray of music, — whose ? 
Ruahmah: [Rising.] 

The one who loves thee best in all the world. 



act ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 419 

Naaman: 

Why that should be, — O dare I dream it true? 
Tsarpi, my wife ? Have I misjudged thy heart 
As cold and proud? How nobly thou forgivest! 
Thou com'st to hold me from the last disgrace, — 
The coward's flight into the dark. Go back 
Unstained, my sword! Life is endurable 
While there is one alive on earth who loves us. 

Rtjahmah: 

My lord, — my lord, — O listen! You have erred, — 
You do mistake me now, — this dream — 

Naaman: 

Ah, wake me not! For I can conquer death 
Dreaming this dream. Let me at last believe, 
Though gods are cruel, a woman can be kind. 
Grant me but this! For see, — I ask so little, — 
Only to know that thou art faithful, 
That thou art near me, though I touch thee not, — 
O this will hold me up, though it be given 
From pity more than love. 

Ruahmah: [Trembling, and speaking slowly.] 

Not so, my lord! 
My pity is a stream; my pride of thee 
Is like the sea that doth engulf the stream; 
My love for thee is like the sovereign moon 
That rules the sea. The tides that fill my soul 
Flow unto thee and follow after thee; 



4 20 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act ii 

And where thou goest I will go; and where 
Thou diest I will die, — in the same hour. 

[She lays her hand on his arm. He draws back.] 

Naaman: 

O touch me not! Thou shalt not share my doom. 

Ruahmah: 

Entreat me not to go. I will obey 

In all but this; but rob me not of this, — 

The only boon that makes life worth the living, — 

To walk beside thee day by day, and keep 

Thy foot from stumbling; to prepare thy food 

When thou art hungry, music for thy rest, 

And cheerful words to comfort thy black hour; 

And so to lead thee ever on, and on, 

Through darkness, till we find the door of hope. 

Naaman: 

What word is that ? The leper has no hope. 

Ruahmah: 

Dear lord, the mark upon thy brow is yet 

No broader than my little finger-nail. 

Thy force is not abated, and thy step 

Is firm. Wilt thou surrender to the enemy 

Before thy strength is touched ? Why, let me put 

A drop of courage from my breast in thine ! 

There is a hope for thee. The captive maid 

Of Israel who dwelt within thy house 

Knew of a god very compassionate, 



act ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 421 

Long-suffering, slow to anger, one who heals 

The sick, hath pity on the fatherless, 

And saves the poor and him who has no helper. 

His prophet dwells nigh to Samaria; 

And I have heard that he hath brought the dead 

To life again. We'll go to him. The King, 

If I beseech him, will appoint a guard 

Of thine own soldiers and Saballidin, 

Thy friend, to convoy us upon our journey. 

He'll give us royal letters to the King 

Of Israel to make our welcome sure ; 

And we will take the open road, beneath 

The open sky, to-morrow, and go on 

Together till we find the door of hope. 

Come, come with me! 

[She grasps his hand.] 
Naaman: [Drawing back.] 

Thou must not touch me! 

Ruahmah: [Unclasping her girdle and putting the end in 
his hand.] 

Take my girdle, then! 
Naaman: [Kissing the clasp of the girdle.] 
I do begin to think there is a God, 
Since love on earth can work such miracles! 

CURTAIN 



ACT III 

Time: A month later: dawn 

Scene I 

Naaman's tent, on high ground among the mountains near Sa- 
maria: the city below. In the distance, a wide and splendid 
landscape. Saballidin and soldiers on guard below the tent. 
Enter Ruahmah in hunter's dress, with a lute slung from her 
shoulder. 
Ruahmah: 

Peace and good health to you, Saballidin. 
Good morrow to you all. How fares my lord? 
Saballidin: 

The curtains of his tent are folded still: 
They have not moved since we returned, last night, 
And told him what befell us in the city. 
Ruahmah: 

Told him! Why did you make report to him 
And not to me? Am I not captain here, 
Intrusted by the King's command with care 
Of Naaman until he is restored? 

'Tis mine to know the first of good or ill 
422 



act in, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 423 

In this adventure: mine to shield his heart 
From every arrow of adversity. 
What have you told him? Speak! 

Saballidin: 

Lady, we feared 
To bring our news to you. For when the King 
Of Israel had read our monarch's letter, 
He rent his clothes, and cried, "Am I a god, 
To kill and make alive, that I should heal 
A leper ? Ye have come with false pretence, 
Damascus seeks a quarrel with me. Go!" 
But when we told our lord, he closed his tent, 
And there remains enfolded in his grief. 
I trust he sleeps; 't were kind to let him sleep! 
For now he doth forget his misery, 
And all the burden of his hopeless woe 
Is lifted from him by the gentle hand 
Of slumber. Oh, to those bereft of hope 
Sleep is the only blessing left, — the last 
Asylum of the weary, the one sign 
Of pity from impenetrable heaven. 
Waking is strife; sleep is the truce of God! 
Ah, lady, wake him not. The day will be 
Full long for him to suffer, and for us 
To turn our disappointed faces home 
On the long road by which we must return. 



4 2 4 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [actiii,sc.i 

Ruahmah: 

Return! Who gave you that command? Not I! 

The King made me the leader of this quest, 

And bound you all to follow me, because 

He knew I never would return without 

The thing for which he sent us. I'll go on 

Day after day, unto the uttermost parts 

Of earth, if need be, and beyond the gates 

Of morning, till I find that which I seek, — 

New life for Naaman. Are ye ashamed 

To have a woman lead you ? Then go back 

And tell the King, "This huntress went too far 

For us to follow: she pursues the trail 

Of hope alone, refusing to forsake 

The quarry: we grew weary of the chase; 

And so we left her and retraced our steps, 

Like faithless hounds, to sleep beside the fire." 

Did Naaman forsake his soldiers thus 

When you went forth to hunt the Assyrian Bull ? 

Your manly courage is less durable 

Than woman's love, it seems. Go, if you will, — 

Who bids me now farewell ? 

Soldiers: 

Not I, not I! 

Saballidin: 

Lady, lead on, we'll follow you forever! 



act in, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 425 

Ruahmah: 

Why, now you speak like men! Brought you no word 

Out of Samaria, except that cry 

Of impotence and fear from Israel's King? 
Saballidin: 

I do remember while he spoke with us 

A rustic messenger came in, and cried 

"Elisha saith, bring Naaman to me 

At Dothan, he shall surely know there is 

A God in Israel." 
Ruahmah: 

What said the King ? 
Saballidin: 

He only shouted "Go!" more wildly yet, 

And rent his clothes again, as if he were 

Half-maddened by a coward's fear, and thought 

Only of how he might be rid of us. 

What comfort could there be for him, what hope 

For us, in the rude prophet's misty word ? 
Ruahmah: 

It is the very word for which I prayed ! 

My trust was not in princes; for the crown, 

The sceptre, and the purple robe are not 

Significant of vital power. The man 

Who saves his brother-men is he who lives 

His life with Nature, takes deep hold on truth, 



426 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [ac±iii,sc.i 

And trusts in God. A prophet's word is more 
Than all the kings on earth can speak. How far 
Is Dothan? 
Soldier: 

Lady, 'tis but three hours' ride 
Along the valley southward. 
Ruahmah: 

Near! so near? 
I had not thought to end my task so soon ! 
Prepare yourselves with speed to take the road. 
I will awake my lord. 

[Exeunt all but Saballidin and Ruahmah. She goes 
toward the tent.] 
Saballidin: 

Ruahmah, stay! [She turns back.] 
I've been your servant in this doubtful quest, 
Obedient, faithful, loyal to your will, — 
What have I earned by this ? 
Ruahmah: 

The gratitude 
Of him we both desire to serve : your friend, — 
My master and my lord. 

Saballidin: 

No more than this ? 
Ruahmah: 

Yes, if you will, take all the thanks my hands 

Can hold, my lips can speak. 



act in, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 427 

Saballidin: 

I would have more. 
Ruahmah: 

My friend, there's nothing more to give to you. 

My service to my lord is absolute. 

There's not a drop of blood within my veins 

But quickens at the very thought of him; 

And not a dream of mine but he doth stand 

Within its heart and make it bright. No man 

To me is other than his friend or foe. 

You are his friend, and I believe you true! 
Saballidin: 

I have been true to him, — now, I am true 

To you. 
Ruahmah: 

Why, then, be doubly true to him! 

O let us match our loyalties, and strive 

Between us who shall win the higher crown! 

Men boast them of a friendship stronger far 

Than love of woman. Prove it! I'll not boast, 

But I'll contend with you on equal terms 

In this brave race : and if you win the prize 

I'll hold you next to him: and if I win 

He'll hold you next to me; and either way 

We'll not be far apart. Do you accept 

My challenge ? 



428 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [actiii,sc.i 

Saballidin: 

Yes! For you enforce my heart 
By honour to resign its great desire, 
And love itself to offer sacrifice 
Of all disloyal dreams on its own altar. 
Yet love remains; therefore I pray you, think 
How surely you must lose in our contention. 
For I am known to Naaman: but you 
He blindly takes for Tsarpi. 'Tis to her 
He gives his gratitude: the praise you win 
Endears her name. 

Ruahmah: 

Her name ? Why, what is that ? 
A name is but an empty shell, a mask 
That does not change the features of the face 
Beneath it. Can a name rejoice, or weep, 
Or hope? Can it be moved by tenderness 
To daily services of love, or feel the warmth 
Of dear companionship ? How many things 
We call by names that have no meaning ! Kings 
That cannot rule; and gods that are not good; 
And wives that do not love! It matters not 
What syllables he utters when he calls, 
'Tis I who come, — 'tis I who minister 
Unto my lord, and mine the living heart 
That feels the comfort of his confidence, 



act in, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 429 

The thrill of gladness when he speaks to me, — 
I do not hear the name! 

Saballidin: 

And yet, be sure 

There's danger in this error, — and no gain! 
Ruahmah: 

I seek no gain: I only tread the path 

Marked for me daily by the hand of love. 

And if his blindness spared my lord one pang 

Of sorrow in his black, forsaken hour, — 

And if this error makes his burdened heart 

More quiet, and his shadowed way less dark, 

Whom do I rob ? Not her who chose to stay 

At ease in Rimmon's House! Surely not him! 

Only myself! And that enriches me. 

Why trouble we the master? Let it go, — 

To-morrow he must know the truth, — and then 

He shall dispose of me e'en as he will! 
Saballidin: 

To-morrow ? 
Ruahmah: 

Yes, for I will tarry here, 

While you conduct him to Elisha's house 

To find the promised healing. I forebode 

A sudden danger from the craven King 

Of Israel, or else a secret ambush 



430 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act in, set 

From those who hate us in Damascus. Go, 
But leave me twenty men: this mountain-pass 
Protects the road behind you. Make my lord 
Obey the prophet's word, whatever he commands, 
And come again in peace. Farewell! 

[Exit Saballidin. Ruahmah goes toward the tent, 

then pauses and turns back. She takes her lute and 

sings.] 

Song 

Above the edge of dark appear the lances of the sun; 
Along the mountain-ridges clear his rosy heralds run; 

The vapours down the valley go 

Like broken armies, dark and low. 

hook up, my heart, from every hill 

Infolds of rose and daffodil 

The sunrise banners flow. 

O fly away on silent wing, ye boding owls of night! 
O welcome little birds that sing the coming-in of light! 

For new, and new, and ever-new, 

The golden bud within the blue; 

And every morning seems to say: 

"There's something happy on the way, 

"And God sends love to you!" 



act m, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 431 

Naaman: [Appearing at the entrance of his tent.] 
O let me ever wake to music! For the soul 
Returns most gently then, and finds its way 
By the soft, winding clue of melody, 
Out of the dusky labyrinth of sleep, 
Into the light. My body feels the sun 
Though I behold naught that his rays reveal. 
Come, thou who art my daydawn and my sight, 
Sweet eyes, come close, and make the sunrise mine! 

Ruahmah: [Coming near.] 

A fairer day, dear lord, was never bom 
In Paradise! The sapphire cup of heaven 
Is filled with golden wine: the earth, adorned 
With jewel-drops of dew, unveils her face 
A joyful bride, in welcome to her king. 
And look ! He leaps upon the Eastern hills 
All ruddy fire, and claims her with a kiss. 
Yonder the snowy peaks of Hermon float 
Unmoving as a wind-dropt cloud. The gulf 
Of Jordan, filled with violet haze, conceals 
The river's winding trail with wreaths of mist. 
Below us, marble-crowned Samaria thrones 
Upon her emerald hill amid the Vale 
Of Barley, while the plains to northward change 
Their colour like the shimmering necks of doves. 
The lark springs up, with morning on her wings, 



432 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act hi, sc. i 

To climb her singing stairway in the blue, 

And all the fields are sprinkled with her joy! 
Naaman: 

Thy voice is magical: thy words are visions! 

I must content myself with them, for now 

My only hope is lost: Samaria's King 

Rejects our monarch's message, — hast thou heard? 

"Am I a god that I should cure a leper?" 

He sends me home unhealed, with angry words, 

Back to Damascus and the lingering death. 
Ruahmah: 

What matter where he sends ? No god is he 

To slay or make alive. Elisha bids 

You come to him at Dothan, there to learn 

There is a God in Israel. 
Naaman: 

I fear 

That I am grown mistrustful of all gods; 

Their secret counsels are implacable. 
Ruahmah: 

Fear not! There's One who rules in righteousness 

High over all. 
Naaman: 

What knowest thou of Him ? 
Ruahmah: 

Oh, I have heard, — the maid of Israel, — 

Rememberest thou? She often said her God 



act in, sc. i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 



433 



Was merciful and kind, and slow to wrath, 
And plenteous in forgiveness, pitying us 
Like as a father pitieth his children. 

Naaman: 

If there were such a God, I'd worship Him 
Forever! 

Ruahmah: 

Then make haste to hear the word 
His prophet promises to speak to thee! 
Obey it, my dear lord, and thou shalt find 
Healing and peace. The light shall fill thine eyes. 
Thou wilt not need my leading any more, — 
Nor me, — for thou wilt see me, all unveiled, — 
I tremble at the thought. 

Naaman: 

Why, what is this? 
Why shouldst thou tremble? Art thou not mine own ? 
Ruahmah: [Turning to him and speaking in broken words.] 
I am, — thy handmaid, — all and only thine, — 
The very pulses of my heart are thine! 
Feel how they throb to comfort thee to-day — 
To-day! Because it is thy time of trouble. 

[She takes his hand and puts it to her forehead and her 
lips, but before she can lay it upon her heart, he draws 
away from her.] 



434 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act m, sc. i 

Naaman: 

Thou art too dear to injure with a kiss, — 
How should I take a gift may bankrupt thee, 
Or drain the fragrant chalice of thy love 
With lips that may be fatal ? Tempt me not 
To sweet dishonour; strengthen me to wait 
Until thy prophecy is all fulfilled, 
And I can claim thee with a joyful heart. 

Ruahmah: [Turning away.] 

Thou wilt not need me then, — and I shall be 

No more than the faint echo of a song 

Heard half asleep. We shall go back to where 

We stood before this journey. 

Naaman: 

Never again! 

For thou art changed by some deep miracle. 

The flower of womanhood hath bloomed in thee, — 

Art thou not changed ? 

Ruahmah: 

Yea, I am changed, — and changed 

Again, — bewildered, — till there's nothing clear 

To me but this: I am the instrument 

In an Almighty hand to rescue thee 

From death. This will I do, — and afterward — 

[A trumpet is blown without] 

Hearken, the trumpet sounds, the chariot waits. 

Away, dear lord, follow the road to light! 



act in, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 435 



Scene II* 

The house of Elisha, upon a terraced hillside. A low stone 
cottage with vine-trellises and flowers; a flight of steps, at the 
foot of which is Naaman's chariot. He is standing in it; 
Saballidin beside it. Two soldiers come down the steps. 
First Soldier: 

We have delivered my lord's greeting and his message. 
Second Soldier: 

Yes, and near lost our noses in the doing of it! For the 
servant slammed the door in our faces. A most un- 
mannerly reception! 

First Soldier: 

But I take that as a good omen. It is a mark of holy men 
to keep ill-conditioned servants. Look, the door opens, 
the prophet is coming. 

Second Soldier: 

No, by my head, it is that notable mark of his master's 
holiness, that same lantern-jawed lout of a servant. 
[Gehazi loiters down the steps and comes to Naaman 
with a slight obeisance.] 

*Note that this scene is not intended to be put upon the stage, the 
effect of the action upon the drama being given at the beginning of 
Act IV. 



436 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act hi, sc. ii 

Gehazi: 

My master, the prophet of Israel, sends word to Naaman 
the Syrian, — are you he? — "Go wash in Jordan seven 
times and be healed." 

[Gehazi turns and goes slowly up the steps.] 

Naaman: 

What insolence is this ? Am I a man 

To be put off with surly messengers ? 

Has not Damascus rivers more renowned 

Than this rude muddy Jordan? Crystal streams, 

Abana! Pharpar! flowing smoothly through 

A paradise of roses? Might I not 

Have bathed in them and been restored at ease? 

Come up, Saballidin, and guide me homeJ 

Saballidin: 

Bethink thee, master, shall we lose our quest 

Because a servant is uncouth ? The road 

That seeks the mountain leads us through the vale. 

The prophet's word is friendly after all; 

For had it been some mighty task he set, 

Thou wouldst perform it. How much rather then 

This easy one ? Hast thou not promised her 

Who waits for thy return ? Wilt thou go back 

To her unhealed ? 

Naaman: 

No! not for all my pride! 

I'll make myself most humble for her sake, 



act in, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 437 

And stoop to anything that gives me hope 
Of having her. Make haste, Saballidin, 
Bring me to Jordan. I will cast myself 
Into that river's turbulent embrace 
A hundred times, until I save my life 
Or lose it! 

[Exeunt. The light fades: musical interlude. The 
light increases again with ruddy sunset shining on 
the door of Elisha's house. The prophet appears 
and looks off, shading his eyes with his hand as 
he descends the steps. Trumpet blows,— Naaman's 
call;— sound of horses galloping and men shouting. 
Naaman enters joyously, followed by Saballidin 
and soldiers, with gifts.] 
Naaman: 

Behold a man delivered from the grave 
By thee! I rose from Jordan's waves restored 
To youth and vigour, as the eagle mounts 
Upon the sunbeam and renews his strength! 
O mighty prophet deign to take from me 
These gifts too poor to speak my gratitude; 
Silver and gold and jewels, damask robes,— 
Elisha: [Interrupting.] 

As thy soul liveth I will not receive 

A gift from thee, my son ! Give all to Him 

Whose mercy hath redeemed thee from thy plague. 



438 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act in, sen 

Naaman: 

He is the only God! I worship Him! 

Grant me a portion of the blessed soil 

Of this most favoured land where I have found 

His mercy; in Damascus will I build 

An altar to His name, and praise Him there 

Morning and night. There is no other God 

In all the world. 

Thou needst not 
This load of earth to build a shrine for Him; 
Yet take it if thou wilt. But be assured 
God's altar is in every loyal heart, 
And every flame of love that kindles there 
Ascends to Him and brightens with His praise. 
There is no other God! But evil Powers 
Make war against Him in the darkened world; 
And many temples have been built to them. 
Naaman: 

I know them well ! Yet when my master goes 
To worship in the House of Rimmon, I 
Must enter with him; for he trusts me, leans 
Upon my hand; and when he bows himself 
I cannot help but make obeisance too, — 
But not to Rimmon! To my country's King 
I'll bow in love and honour. Will the Lord 
Pardon thy servant in this thing? 



act in, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 439 

Elisha: 

My son, 
Peace has been granted thee. 'Tis thine to find 
The only way to keep it. Go in peace. 

Naaman: 

Thou hast not answered me,— may I bow down? 

Elisha: 

The answer must be thine. The heart that knows 
The perfect peace of gratitude and love, 
Walks in the light and needs no other rule. 
When next thou comest into Rimmon's House, 
Thy heart will tell thee how to go in peace. 

CURTAIN 



ACT IV 

Scene I 

The interior of Naaman's tent, at night. Ruahmah alone, 
sleeping on the ground. A vision appears to her through the 
curtains of the tent: Elisha standing on the hillside at Do- 
than: Naaman, restored to sight, comes in and kneels before 
him. Elisha. blesses him, and he goes out rejoicing. The 
vision of the prophet turns to Ruahmah and lifts his hand 
in warning. 
Elisha: 

Daughter of Israel, what dost thou here? 
Thy prayer is granted. Naaman is healed: 
Mar not true service with a selfish thought. 
Nothing remains for thee to do, except 
Give thanks, and go whither the Lord commands. 
Obey, — obey! Ere Naaman returns 
Thou must depart to thine own house in Shechem. 
[The vision vanishes.] 
Ruahmah: [Waking and rising slowly.] 
A dream, a dream, a messenger of God! 
O dear and dreadful vision, art thou true? 
Then am I glad with all my broken heart. 
440 



act iv, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 441 

Nothing remains, — nothing remains but this, — 
Give thanks, obey, depart, — and so I do. 
Farewell, my master's sword! Farewell to you, 
My amulet! I lay you on the hilt 
His hand shall clasp again: bid him farewell 
For me, since I must look upon his face 
No more for ever! — Hark, what sound was that? 
[Enter soldier hurriedly.] 
Soldier: 

Mistress, an armed troop, footmen and horse, 
Mounting the hill ! 

Ruahmah: 

My lord returns in triumph. 

Soldier: 

Not so, for these are enemies; they march 
In haste and silence, answering not our cries. 

Ruahmah: 

Our enemies? Then hold your ground, — on guard! 
Fight! fight! Defend the pass, and drive them down. 
[Exit soldier. Ruahmah draws Naaman's sword 
from the scabbard and hurries out of the tent. Con- 
fused noise of fighting outside. Three or four sol- 
diers are driven in by a troop of men in disguise. 
Ruahmah follows: she is beaten to her knees, and 
her sword is broken.] 



442 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [activ,sc.i 

Rezon: [Throwing aside the cloth which covers his face.] 
Hold her! So, tiger-maid, we've found your lair 
And trapped you. Where is Naaman, 
Your master? 

Ruahmah: [Rising, her arms held by two of Rezon' 's followers.] 

He is far beyond your reach. 

Rezon: 

Brave captain! He has saved himself, the leper, 

And left you here? 
Ruahmah: 

The leper is no more. 

Rezon: 

What mean you? 

Ruahmah: 

He has gone to meet his God. 

Rezon: 

Dead? Dead? Behold how Rimmon's wrath is swift! 
Damascus shall be mine; I'll terrify 
The King with this, and make my terms. But no! 
False maid, you sweet-faced harlot, you have lied 
To save him, — speak. 

Ruahmah: 

I am not what you say, 
Nor have I lied, nor will I ever speak 
A word to you, vile servant of a traitor-god. 



act iv, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 443 

Rezon: 

Break off this little flute of blasphemy, 

This ivory neck, — twist it, I say! 

Give her a swift despatch after her leper! 

But stay, — if he still lives he'll follow her, 

And so we may ensnare him. Harm her not! 

Bind her! Away with her to Rimmon's House! 

Is all this carrion dead? There's one that moves, — 

A spear, — fasten him down! All quiet now? 

Then back to our Damascus! Rimmon's face 

Shall be made bright with sacrifice. 

[Exeunt, forcing Ruahmah with them. Musical inter- 
lude. A wounded soldier crawls from a dark corner 
of the tent and finds the chain with Naaman's seal, 
which has fallen to the ground in the struggle.] 
Wounded Soldier: 

The signet of my lord, her amulet! 
Lost, lost! Ah, noble lady, — let me die 
With this upon my breast. 

[The tent is dark. Enter Naaman and his company 
in haste, with torches.] 
Naaman: 

What bloody work 
Is here? God, let me live to punish him 
Who wrought this horror! Treacherously slain 
At night, by unknown hands, my brave companions: 



444 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. i 

Tsarpi, my best beloved, light of my soul, 

Put out in darkness! O my broken lamp 

Of life, where art thou ? Nay, I cannot find her. 
Wounded Soldier: [Raising himself on his arm.] 

Master! 
Naaman: [Kneels beside him.] 

One living? Quick, a torch this way! 

Lift up his head, — so, — carefully! 

Courage, my friend, your captain is beside you. 

Call back your soul and make report to him. 
Wounded Soldier: 

Hail, captain! O my captain, — here! 
Naaman: 

Be patient, — rest in peace, — the fight is done. 

Nothing remains but render your account. 
Wounded Soldier: 

They fell upon us suddenly, — we fought 

Our fiercest, — every man, — our lady fought 

Fiercer than all. They beat us down, — she's gone. 

Rezon has carried her away a captive. See, — 

Her amulet, — I die for you, my captain. 
Naaman: [He gently lays the dead soldier on the ground, and 
rises.] 

Farewell. This last report was brave; but strange 

Beyond my thought! How came the High Priest here? 

And what is this? my chain, my seal! But this 



act iv, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 445 

Has never been in Tsarpi's hand. I gave 
This signet to a captive maid one night, — 
A maid of Israel. How long ago? 
Ruahmah was her name, — almost forgotten! 
So long ago, — how comes this token here? 
What is this mystery, Saballidin? 

Saballidin: 

Ruahmah is her name who brought you hither. 

Naaman: 

Where then is Tsarpi? 

Saballidin: 

In Damascus. 
"She left you when the curse of Rimmon fell, — 
Took refuge in his House, — and there she waits 
Her lord's return, — Rezon's return. 

Naaman: 

'Tis false! 

Saballidin: 

The falsehood is in her. She hath been friend 
With Rezon in his priestly plot to win 
Assyria's favour, — friend to his design 
To sell his country to enrich his temple, — 
And friend to him in more, — I will not name it. 

Naaman: 

Nor will I credit it. Impossible! 



446 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. i 

Saballidin: 

Did she not plead with you against the war, 

Counsel surrender, seek to break your will ? 
Naaman: 

She did not love my work, a soldier's task. 

She never seemed to be at one with me 

Until I was a leper. 

Saballidin: 

From whose hand 

Did you receive the sacred cup? 

Naaman: 

From hers. 

Saballidin: 

And from that hour the curse began to work. 
Naaman: 

But did she not have pity when she saw 

Me smitten ? Did she not beseech the King 

For letters and a guard to make this journey? 

Has she not been the fountain of my hope, 

My comforter and my most faithful guide 

In this adventure of the dark ? All this 

Is proof of perfect love that would have shared 

A leper's doom rather than give me up. 

Can I doubt her who dared to love like this? 
Saballidin: 

O master, doubt her not, — but know her name; 

Ruahmah ! It was she alone who wrought 



act iv, sc.i] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 447 

This wondrous work of love. She won the King 
To furnish forth this company. She led 
Our march, kept us in heart, fought off despair, 
Watched over you as if you were her child, 
Prepared your food, your cup, with her own hands, 
Sang you asleep at night, awake at dawn, — 
Naaman: [Interrupting.] 

Enough ! I do remember every hour 

Of that sweet comradeship ! And now her voice 

Wakens the echoes in my lonely breast. 

Shall I not see her, thank her, speak her name ? 

Ruahmah ! Let me live till I have looked 

Into her eyes and called her my Ruahmah ! 

[To his soldiers.] 
Away! away! I burn to take the road 
That leads me back to Rimmon's House, — 
But not to bow, — by God, never to bow! 



448 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. n 

Scene II 

Time: Three days later 

Inner court of the House of Rimmon; a temple with huge pillars 
at each side. In the right foreground the seat of the King; at 
the left, of equal height, the seat of the High Priest. In the 
background a broad flight of steps, rising to a curtain of cloudy 
gray, embroidered with two gigantic hands holding thunder- 
bolts. The temple is in half darkness at first. Enter Kham- 
ma and Nubta, robed as Kharimati, or religious dancers, in 
gowns of black gauze with yellow embroideries and mantles. 
Khamma: 

All is ready for the rites of worship; our lady will play a 
great part in them. She has put on her Tyrian robes, 
and all her ornaments. 
Nubta: 

That is a sure sign of a religious purpose. She is most 
devout, our lady Tsarpi! 
Khamma: 

A favourite of Rimmon, too ! The High Priest has assured 
her of it. He is a great man, — next to the King, now 
that Naaman is gone. 
Nubta: 

But if Naaman should come back, healed of the leprosy? 



act iv, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 449 

Khamma: 

How can he come back? The Hebrew slave that went 
away with him, when they caught her, said that he was 
dead. The High Priest has shut her up in the prison 
of the temple, accusing her of her master's death. 
Nubta: 

Yet I think he does not believe it, for I heard him telling 
our mistress what to do if Naaman should return. 
Khamma: 

What, then? 
Nubta: 

She will claim him as her husband. Was she not wedded 
to him before the god? That is a sacred bond. Only 
the High Priest can loose it. She will keep her hold on 
Naaman for the sake of the House of Rimmon. A wife 

knows her husband's secrets, she can tell 

[Enter Shumakim, with his flagon, walking unsteadily.] 
Khamma: 

Hush! here comes the fool Shumakim. He is never sober. 
Shumakim: [Laughing.] 

Are there two of you? I see two, but that is no proof. 
I think there is only one, but beautiful enough for two. 
What were you talking to yourself about, fairest one! 
Khamma: 

About the lady Tsarpi, fool, and what she would do if 
her husband returned. 



450 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sen 

Shumakim: 

Fie! fie! That is no talk for an innocent fool to hear. 
Has she a husband? 
Nubta: 

You know very well that she is the wife of Lord Naaman. 

Shumakim: 

I remember that she used to wear his name and his jewels. 
But I thought he had exchanged her, — for a leprosy. 

Khamma: 

You must have heard that he went away to Samaria to 
look for healing. Some say that he died on the journey; 
but others say he has been cured, and is on his way 
home to his wife. 

Shumakim: 

It may be, for this is a mad world, and men never know 
when they are well off, — except us fools. But he must 
come soon if he would find his wife as he parted from 
her, — or the city where he left it. The Assyrians have 
returned with a greater army, and this time they will 
make an end of us. There is no Naaman now, and the 
Bull will devour Damascus like a bunch of leeks, flowers 
and all, — flowers and all, my double-budded fair one! 
Are you not afraid? 

Nubta: 

We belong to the House of Rimmon. He will protect us. 



act iv, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 451 

Shumakim: 

What? The mighty one who hides behind the curtain 
there, and tells his secrets to Rezon ? No doubt he will 
take care of you, and of himself. Whatever game is 
played, the gods never lose. But for the protection of 
the common people and the rest of us fools, I would 
rather have Naaman at the head of an army than all 
the sacred images between here and Babylon. 
Khamma: 

You are a wicked old man. You mock the god. He will 
punish you. 
Shumakim: [Bitterly.] 

How can he punish me? Has he not already made me a 
fool? Hark, here comes my brother the High Priest, 
and my brother the King. Rimmon made us all; but 
nobody knows who made Rimmon, except the High 
Priest; and he will never tell. 
Gongs and cymbals sound. Enter Rezon with priests, and the 
King with courtiers. They take their seats. A throng of 
Khali and Kharimati come in, Tsarpi presiding; a sacred 
dance is performed with torches, burning incense, and chant- 
ing, in which Tsarpi leads.] 

Chant 

Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of the whirl-storm, 
Hail, shaker of mountains, breaker-down of forests^ 



452 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sen 

Hail, thou who roar est terribly in the darkness, 
Hail, thou whose arrows flame across the heavens! 
Hail, great destroyer, lord of flood and tempest, 
In thine anger almighty, in thy wrath eternal, 
Thou who delightest in ruin, maker of desolations, 
Immeru, Addu, Barku, Rimmon! 
See we tremble before thee, low we bow at thine altar, 
Have mercy upon us, be favourable unto us, 
Save us from our enemy, accept our sacrifice, 
Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon! 

[Silence follows, all bowing down.] 

Rezon: 

O King, last night the counsel from above 
Was given in answer to our divination. 
Ambassadors must go forthwith to crave 
Assyria's pardon, and a second offer 
Of the same terms of peace we did reject 
Not long ago. 

Benhadad: 

Dishonour! Yet I see 
No other way! Assyria will refuse, 
Or make still harder terms. Disaster, shame 
For this gray head, and ruin for Damascus! 

Rezon: 

Yet may we trust Rimmon will favour us, 
If we adhere devoutly to his worship. 



act iv, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 453 

He will incline his brother-god, the Bull, 

To spare us, if we supplicate him now 

With costly gifts. Therefore I have prepared 

A sacrifice: Rimmon shall be well pleased 

With the red blood that bathes his knees to-night! 
Benhadad: 

My mind is dark with doubt, — I do forebode 

Some horror! Let me go, — I am an old man, — 

If Naaman my captain were alive! 

But he is dead, — the glory is departed! 

[He rises, trembling, to leave the throne. Trumpet 
sounds, — Naaman's call; — enter Naaman, followed 
by soldiers; he kneels at the foot of the throne.] 
Benhadad: [Half -whispering.] 

Art thou a ghost escaped from Allatu? 

How didst thou pass the seven doors of death ? 

O noble ghost I am afraid of thee, 

And yet I love thee, — let me hear thy voice! 
Naaman: 

No ghost, my King, but one who lives to serve 

Thee and Damascus with his heart and sword 

As in the former days. The only God 

Has healed my leprosy: my life is clean 

To offer to my country and my King. 
Benhadad: [Starting toward him.] 

welcome to thy King! Thrice welcome! 



454 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc.ii 

Rezon: [Leaving his seat and coming toward Naaman.] 

Stay! 
The leper must appear before the priest, 
The only one who can pronounce him clean. 

[Naaman turns; they stand looking each other in the 
face] 
, Yea, — thou art cleansed: Rimmon hath pardoned thee, — 
In answer to the daily prayers of her 
Whom he restores to thine embrace, — thy wife. 
[Tsarpi comes slowly toward Naaman.] 

Naaman: 

From him who rules this House will I receive 
Nothing! I seek no pardon from his priest, 
No wife of mine among his votaries! 

Tsarpi: [Holding out her hands.] 

Am I not yours ? Will you renounce our vows ? 

Naaman : 

The vows were empty, — never made you mine 
In aught but name. A wife is one who shares 
Her husband's thought, incorporates his heart 
With hers by love, and crowns him with her trust. 
She is God's remedy for loneliness, 
And God's reward for all the toil of life. 
This you have never been to me, — and so 
I give you back again to Rimmon 's House 
Where you belong. Claim what you will of mine, — 



act iv, sen] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 455 

Not me! I do renounce you,— or release you, — 

According to the law. If you demand 

A further cause than what I have declared, 

I will unfold it fully to the King. 

Rezon: [Interposing hurriedly.} 

No need of that ! This duteous lady yields 

To your caprice as she has ever done: 

She stands a monument of loyalty 

And woman's meekness. 

Naaman: 

Let her stand for that! 

Adorn your temple with her piety! 

But you in turn restore to me the treasure 

You stole at midnight from my tent. 
Rezon: 

What treasure! I have stolen none from you. 
Naaman: 

The very jewel of my soul, — Ruahmah ! 

My King, the captive maid of Israel, 

To whom thou didst commit my broken life 

With letters to Samaria, — my light, 

My guide, my saviour in this pilgrimage, — 

Dost thou remember? 

Benhadad: _ „ . 

I recall the maid, — 

But dimly, — for my mind is old and weary. 

She was a fearless maid, I trusted her 

And gave thee to her charge. Where is she now? 



456 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. ii 

Naaman: 

This robber fell upon my camp by night, — 
While I was with Elisha at the Jordan, — 
Slaughtered my soldiers, carried off the maid, 
And holds her somewhere in imprisonment. 

give this jewel back to me, my King, 
And I will serve thee with a grateful heart 
For ever. I will fight for thee, and lead 
Thine armies on to glorious victory 
Over all foes! Thou shalt no longer fear 
The host of Asshur, for thy throne shall stand 
Encompassed with a wall of dauntless hearts, 
And founded on a mighty people's love, 

And guarded by the God of righteousness. 
Benhadad: 

1 feel the flame of courage at thy breath 
Leap up among the ashes of despair. 

Thou hast returned to save us! Thou shalt have 
The maid; and thou shalt lead my host again! 
Priest, I command you give her back to him. 
Rezon: 

O master, I obey thy word as thou 
Hast ever been obedient to the voice 
Of Rimmon. Let thy fiery captain wait 
Until the sacrifice has been performed, 
And he shall have the jewel that he claims. 
Must we not first placate the city's god 



act iv, sc. ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 457 

With due allegiance, keep the ancient faith, 

And pay our homage to the Lord of Wrath ? 
Benhadad: [Sinking back upon his throne in fear.] 

I am the faithful son of Rimmon's House, — 

And lo, these many years I worship him! 

My thoughts are troubled,— I am very old, 

But still a King! O Naaman, be patient! 

Priest, let the sacrifice be offered. 

[The High Priest lifts his rod. Gongs and cymbals 
sound. The curtain is rolled back, disclosing the 
image of Rimmon; a gigantic and hideous idol, with 
a cruel human face, four horns, the mane of a lion, 
and huge paws stretched in front of him enclosing a 
low altar of black stone. Ruahmah stands on the 
altar, chained, her arms are bare and folded on her 
breast. The people prostrate themselves in silence, 
with signs of astonishment and horror.] 
Rezon: 

Behold the sacrifice! Bow down, bow down! 
Naaman: [Stabbing him.] 

Bow thou, black priest! Down, — down to hell! 

Ruahmah! do not die! I come to thee. 

[Naaman rushes toward her, attacked by the priests, 
crying u Sacrilege! Kill himl" But the soldiers 
stand on the steps and beat them back. He springs 
upon the altar and clasps her by the hand. Tumult 



458 THE HOUSE OF RIMMON [act iv, sc. ii 

and confusion. The King rises and speaks with a 
loud voice, silence follows.] 
Benhadad: 

Peace, peace! The King commands all weapons down! 

O Naaman, what wouldst thou do? Beware 

Lest thou provoke the anger of a god. 
Naaman: 

There is no God but one, the Merciful, 

Who gave this perfect woman to my soul 

That I might learn through her to worship Him, 

And know the meaning of immortal Love. 
Benhadad: [Agitated.] 

Yet she is consecrated, bound, and doomed 

To sacrificial death; but thou art sworn 

To live and lead my host, — Hast thou not sworn? 
Naaman: 

Only if thou wilt keep thy word to me! 

Break with this idol of iniquity 

Whose shadow makes a darkness in the land; 

Give her to me who gave me back to thee; 

And I will lead thine army to renown 

And plant thy banners on the hill of triumph. 

But if she dies, I die with her, defying Rimmon. 

[Cries of "Spare them! Release her! Give us back our 
Captain!" and "Sacrilege! Let them die!" Then 
silence, all turning toward the King.] 



act iv, sc ii] THE HOUSE OF RIMMON 459 

Benhadad: 

Is this the choice? Must we destroy the bond 

Of ancient faith, or slay the city's living hope! 

I am an old, old man, — and yet the King! 

Must I decide? — O let me ponder it! 

[His head sinks upon his breast. All stand eagerly 
looking at him.] 
Naaman: 

Ruahmah, my Ruahmah! I have come 

To thee at last! And art thou satisfied? 
Ruahmah: [Looking into his face.] 

Beloved, my beloved, I am glad 

Of all, and glad for ever, come what may. 

Nothing can harm me, — since my lord is come! 



FINIS 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

A fir-tree standeth lonely 299 

A flawless cup: how delicate and fine 351 

A little fir grew in the midst of the wood 131 

A little while the rose 354 

A silent world, — yet full of vital joy 82 

A silken curtain veils the skies 42 

A tear that trembles for a little while 23 

A wreath of poppy flowers 290 

Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land . . 278 

Afterthought of summer's bloom! 43 

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days 34 

All day long in the city's canyon-street 191 

All night long, by a distant bell 325 

All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, 318 

Although you eat me to the root 356 

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream 46 

At sunset, when the rosy light was dying 29 

Blessed is the man that beholdeth the face of a friend in a far 

country 363 

Children of the elemental mother 152 

Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death! . 102 

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again .... 330 

Count not the cost of honour to the dead! 164 

Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night 231 

Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days 223 

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America . . . 141 

Dear tranquil Habit, with her silent hands 291 

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing . . 53 

"Do you give thanks for this? — or that?" No, God be thanked 315 

Do you remember, father, — 10 

Does the snow fall at sea? 45 

463 



464 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine 49 

Flowers rejoice when night is done 24 

For that thy face is fair I love thee not 263 

Four things a man must learn to do 360 

From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the 

moon 214 

Furl your sail, my little boatie 307 

Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard . . 246 

Great Nature had a million words 249 

Hear a word that Jesus spake 67 

Heart of France for a hundred years 216 

Her eyes are like the evening air 277 

Hours fly 341 

How blind the toil that burrows like the mole 213 

How long is the night, brother 276 

How long the echoes love to play 27 

How wonderful are the cities that man hath builded 367 

I count that friendship little worth 314 

I envy every flower that blows 271 

I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair 48 

I love thine inland seas 140 

I put my heart to school 31 

I read within a poet's book 261 

I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer 298 

I will sing of the bounty of the big trees 369 

I would not even ask my heart to say 139 

If all the skies were sunshine 30 

If I have erred in showing all my heart 284 

If on the closed curtain of my sight 264 

In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and 

confusion 219 

In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon 351 

In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest 125 

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing 40 

Into the dust of the making of man 169 

It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) 106 

It's little I can tell 265 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 465 

PAGE 

" Joy is a Duty," — so with golden lore 357 

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee 332 

Just to give up, and trust 329 

Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest 212 

Let me but do my work from day to day . 256 

Let me but feel thy look's embrace 268 

Let me but live my life from year to year 258 

Let me but love my love without disguise 257 

Life is an arrow — therefore you must know 359 

Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting .... 272 

Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock 351 

Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds . in 

Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede 349 

Long, long ago I heard a little song 323 

Long, long, long the trail 50 

Lord Jesus, Thou hast known 309 

Lover of beauty, walking on the height 207 

Man the maker of cities is also a builder of altars 372 

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! 331 

Mine enemies have prevailed against me, O God: 371 

Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed . . . 205 

Not to the swift, the race 259 

Now in the oak the sap of life is welling 38 

O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea 161 

O mighty river! strong, eternal Will 360 

O morning star, farewell! 355 

O who will walk a mile with me 255 

O wonderful! How liquid clear 21 

O youngest of the giant brood 157 

Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch 225 

Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late . . 267 

Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear 248 

Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun 279 

Often I dream your big blue eyes 289 

On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones 292 



466 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Once, only once, I saw it clear, — 280 

One sail in sight upon the lonely sea . 144 

Only a little shrivelled seed 316 

Our silent eyes alone interpreted . 293 

Remember, when the timid light 286 

Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls 311 

Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul 358 

Seven pupils, in the class 356 

Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame 228 

Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand 159 

Sweet in summer, cups of snow 355 

The British bard who looked on Eton's walls 183 

The cornerstone in Truth is laid 343 

The cradle I have made for thee . . 288 

The fire of love was burning, yet so low 317 

The grief that is but feigning 352 

The land was broken in despair 162 

The lizard rested on the rock while I sat among the ruins . . 376 

The Lord is my teacher 378 

The melancholy gift Aurora gained 211 

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring . 22 

The mountains that inclose the vale 260 

The nymphs a shepherd took 353 

The other night I had a dream, most clear 119 

The record of a faith sublime 215 

The river of dreams runs quietly down 300 

The rivers of God are full of water 374 

The roar of the city is low 154 

The shadow by my finger cast . 345 

The time will come when I no more can play 250 

The ways of the world are full of haste and turmoil 377 

The worlds in which we live at heart are one 357 

There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light .... 359 

There are songs for the morning and songs for the night ... 25 

There is a bird I know so well 13 

There's no one here; the garden is asleep 383 

This is the soldier brave enough to tell . 166 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 467 

PAGE 

This is the thanksgiving of the weary 365 

This is the window's message 342 

Thou hast taken me into thy tent of the world, O God .... 379 

Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair 55 

" Through many a land your journey ran 273 

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down . . . 167 

To thee, plain hero of a rugged race 165 

'Twas far away and long ago 266 

Two dwellings, Peace, are thine 334 

Two hundred years of blessing I record 344 

"Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe 348 

Waking from tender sleep 322 

We knew you well, dear Yorick of the West 347 

We met on Nature's stage 350 

Well, you will triumph, dear and noble friend! 296 

What shall I give for thee 328 

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night . . 6 

When down the stair at morning 269 

When first upon my brow I felt your kiss 295 

When May bedecks the naked trees 19 

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark 320 

When to the garden of untroubled thought 262 

When tulips bloom in Union Square 3 

Where's your kingdom, little king? 15 

White Death had laid his pall upon the plain 47 

Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul 358 

Who watched the worn-out Winter die? 32 

With eager heart and will on fire 327 

With memories old and wishes new 346 

With two bright eyes, my star, my love 354 

Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls 210 

Yes, it was like you to forget 274 

You only promised me a single hour 285 

Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers 227 



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